


Terminus: a Flood Aptly Named Despair

by skreev



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternative Timeline, Character Death, F/M, M/M, Post-Golden Deer Route (Fire Emblem: Three Houses)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-03
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:20:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 85,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27374848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skreev/pseuds/skreev
Summary: On the twenty-fifth anniversary of the war’s end, dire news threatens to disrupt Fodlan’s fragile peace: in the west, the long-dead Edelgard von Hresvelg has risen again. As Dimitri clings to the last of his sanity, the former heroes of the war of unification must regather to fight a familiar enemy. And this time, Byleth isn’t there to save them.Meanwhile, a murdered gangster leads Ferdinand on a whirlwind chase to find the long-disappeared Linhardt von Hevring, whose crest research could save their cause—or destroy it. Strange figures have taken interest in Flayn’s pregnancy, and a young radical stalks Lysithea von Ordelia.Where is Byleth? They cry, but here’s what they should be asking: if Byleth was the beginning, then who is the end?
Relationships: Ashe Duran | Ashe Ubert/Dedue Molinaro, Caspar von Bergliez/Hilda Valentine Goneril, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Marianne von Edmund, Edelgard von Hresvelg/Hubert von Vestra, Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Bernadetta von Varley, Ferdinand von Aegir/Dorothea Arnault, Flayn/Ignatz Victor, Ingrid Brandl Galatea/Sylvain Jose Gautier, Linhardt von Hevring/Lysithea von Ordelia, Lorenz Hellman Gloucester/Mercedes von Martritz, My Unit | Byleth/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 67
Kudos: 65





	1. The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place in an alternative timeline; the timeline will be explained over the course of the story. In short, it is the result of a failed golden route, where Byleth tried to unite the three houses and save everyone but ultimately still had to execute Edelgard. This timeline is first outlined in my fic, Dangerous Patterns, but it is not required to read that to understand this story. 
> 
> Content warnings: eventual character death, violence

A blood moon hung over Castle Dominic. Its unnatural pallor washed over the crenellated walls and stretched shadows like daggers over the road. In the distance, Annette heard what sounded like thunder, but her war-trained mind thought of the rumble of ballistas as they were rolled over the fields of Gronder.

Annette had fought wars before. She had descended into the metal cellars of the earth and purged the rats. But she had never seen anything like this.

An army of ghosts encamped across the river from Castle Dominic. The moon made their features seem unusually sanguine. Above them fluttered the defunct banner of the Adrestian Empire.

“They wish to speak to you, Annette,” said one of the knights.

“Why me? Surely, they want my Lord Cousin—”

“They ask for you by name,” said the other knight. “Because of your role in the war.”

They were not ghosts, Annette told herself. Not real ghosts. Real ghosts didn’t exist. These were rebels, the kind that sprung up from time to time in the recesses of Fodlan. They were no different than the pockets of Duscur malcontents or the occasional uprisings of young labor radicals in the cities. But Annette could not help but feel spooked as she approached the army.

 _I guess I’ll find out now if the rumors are true or not_ , she thought to herself. She tried to hum to herself to steel her nerves. She found herself turning towards a tune that her mother had taught her as a child.

“ _There was a star, brightest in the sky, where fire brings both shadow and light._ ” She sounded meek. That wasn’t the tone she wanted for. _“With the wind from the east and from the north a beast, the fire brings both shadow and light.”_

“Who approaches?” barked a man with a thick Adrestian drawl. Annette stopped singing abruptly. He appeared real enough—real flesh and bone, just as any other man.

“Dame Annette, of House Dominic,” she said. “Professor of Reason at the Royal—”

The soldiers uncrossed their lances. “Only her,” they said to the knights. Annette gestured to them to let her go. She was still a seasoned mage, after all. She could handle this herself.

In all her years fighting, Annette had learned just how noisy battle could be. Her dreams still echoed with the din of the camp: the whine of steel grinding against steel, the squeak of polishing armor, the yell and moan of its soldiers. Here, all was quiet. The soldiers bowed their eyes and whispered to each other. Annette could hear her own breath. 

So she began to sing again—the same old tune.

“ _And all the creatures, big and great and small, They’ll take to their halls of night,_ ” Her soft murmurings seemed to echo in the camp around her, yet no one took any attention. “ _With the wind from the east and from the north a beast, The fire brings both shadow and light."_

They brought to her to a tent. The two-headed Eagle of Adrestia rippled through its flaps. The guards nodded at each other. One pushed Annette roughly from behind.

This is it, Annette thought, as she stumbled into the tent. But the rumors did not prepare for the reality of the situation.

“You’re supposed to be dead,” she hissed. “Archbishop Byleth executed you—”

“Did she now?”

Edelgard von Hresvelg—the _late_ Edelgard von Hresvelg— smiled.

* * *

_And here’s the way it went: At the beginning, the progenitor god awoke within Byleth’s breast and led Dimitri to victory. Fodlan was unified. The seas rose. And all the world was drowned._

* * *

“You’re not going to like this.”

Dimitri braced over the table. Before him, a map of The Triumvirate of Fodlan unfurled, its provinces neatly mapped out in thick black lines. The room was light only by a row of flickering candles spread out along the table.

“They saw her again, didn’t they?” he asked Felix. He struggled to keep his voice level. Voices that hadn’t spoken in years whispered to him. _She’s not dead. You told us she was dead._

“Annette met with her,” Ashe said. “She is on her way here now with a message supposedly from Edelgard herself.”

“But how?” Sylvain cut in. He stood with Ingrid on the opposite side of the table, their matching armor gleaming the sigil of Gautier. “She’s dead. She’s been dead for over—”

Dimitri slammed his fist on the table. “We never saw her body.” His blood raced like thunder in his veins. Black intruded on the edges of his vision. The headache…goddess, the headache!

“Your majesty, please calm yourself,” Dedue said. “It is likely just a mistake.”

“How much longer can we let this go on?” Dimitri asked. “What if it is her? Byleth refused to let me attend her execution. She always had a soft spot for her—”

“Why now?” Ashe asked. He had grown into his gray hair, but he never lost those youthful looks. “Why after twenty-five years?”

“She could be building her forces back up,” Felix said. “Gaining support. The Edelgardian movement has only grown stronger in the last decade.”

“This would be a lot easier if Byleth were still around,” Sylvain said. “She was the one to execute her.”

“People always whispered that Byleth didn’t actually go through with it,” Ashe pointed out.

“In any case, Byleth would know. She always said that she would return for the silver anniversary.”

“I don’t want to hear talk of Byleth again,” Dimitri said. “She abandoned us. She abandoned Fodlan. We will not waste any more resources chasing after her.”

“The Anniversary,” Ingrid tugged at Sylvain’s sleeve. “Do you think that they could be targeting the celebrations?”

A few mere weeks would mark the twenty-fifth anniversary of the end of the War of Unification. It would also be the twentieth anniversary of Byleth’s disappearance. Dimitri grit his teeth. The reunion of their class from Garreg Mach would take place. They had all agreed to meet in Fhirdiad before the anniversary, a private celebration. Even without Edelgard’s ghost at their gates, Dimitri had been dreading the celebration.

Byleth had refused to let him witness Edelgard’s death. Even though Edelgard had switched sides and joined their battle against the Agarthans in the end, the Church demanded her head for apostasy and warmongering. Dimitri had cast the tie-breaking vote to execute her. Sometimes he wondered if his anger was to blame. Byleth must have thought the same when she forbid him from attending the execution.

He was too bloodthirsty, she had argued, too involved. It was Edelgard’s last wish—to have Byleth privately commit the deed. There would be no audience, no howling masses—a single mercy granted for Edelgard’s last minute turn to the light. Whatever rage had hounded Dimitri then faded away over the years, only to have Byleth herself slip away into obscurity. So much for the new Archbishop reigning over a United Fodlan. So much for peace.

“We must have the guards on high alert,” Dedue said. “Bring the army to encamp around the city for the celebrations.”

“On the bright side, at least we’ll have everyone back for the reunion,” Ashe said. “All the best fighters and knights in Fodlan will be arriving in just a few days. Claude is bringing an entire regiment from Almyra. The Adrestian Guard will be—" Dimitri held a hand up, and they all fell silent. 

“We should maintain the official opinion that Edelgard’s reappearance is just a rumor,” Ingrid said. “We don’t want people to panic during the anniversary. It might worsen the situation here in Fhirdiad.”

Dimitri seethed. The whispers crowded his ears, deafening the words of the real humans around him. He tried to remind himself that the ghosts were not real, but that only seemed to make their voices more insistent.

Ingrid placed a hand on Dimitri’s shoulder. “We’ll take care of this, Dimitri,” she said. “Please try to rest and not worry.”

A bitter laughter threatened to bubble up Dimitri’s chest. He pushed it down. Not again. He would not give in again.

* * *

_And here’s the way it went: At the beginning, the progenitor god awoke within Byleth’s breast and led Edelgard to victory. Fodlan was unified. The seas rose. And all the world was drowned._

* * *

The news about Edelgard’s reappearance arrived in Adrestia a mere day after it found its way to Faerghus. Ferdinand found himself shaken out of bed by one of his advisors. As Prime Minister of Adrestia, Ferdinand had been swatting down rumors of Edelgard’s resurrection for years. But there was a confirmed sighting this time, and from Annette Dominic of all people—Ferdinand had to regard this news with more than a modicum of polite acknowledgement.

The Imperial Palace erupted into a flurry. Why was she in Faerghus of all places? Why had she not come back to Adrestia, her home, her Empire? Few in the Adrestian Republic had openly supported the concept of the Triumvirate. Byleth had proposed the idea of the Triumvirate. Rather than a formal assimilation, the Triumvirate was a mere bureaucratic union, where each country operated more or less the same but governed international affairs as part of a council.

But Adrestians preferred independence. Many considered the idea an affront to the sovereignty of the old Empire, and Ferdinand had struggled for years to maintain peace within his borders. The fruits of his labor were finally ripening, and now there was a sighting of Edelgard? He couldn’t believe it. He didn’t want to believe it.

Of the Black Eagles, only two had fought on the side of Byleth during the war. Betraying the Empire had not been an easy decision for Ferdinand. Nor had he enjoyed facing his friends in battle. But Byleth had promised not to hurt them, and she kept that vow. When Edelgard turned against the Agarthans, she had made it clear to Ferdinand that she had not forgiven him nor would she ever. Of course, she was executed before that vow could ever really come to fruition. 

And while Ferdinand had lost contact with the other Black Eagles over the years, he still occasionally bumped into one—one who had made it perfectly clear that she had not forgiven him either.

Dorothea lived in a small two-room apartment overlooking one of the main boulevards of Enbarr. Ferdinand had tried to offer her more luxurious accommodations over the years, but she resolutely refused his aid. From here, she taught singing lessons, having been forbidden to ever step on the stage again. Dimitri and Claude had worried about her spreading Edelgardian propaganda. She was also prohibited from practicing magic. The restrictions had severely limited her avenues of employment.

Ferdinand climbed the creaking stairs up the narrow close. Noise traveled easily through these walls. He heard a baby crying. A man rushing down the stairs rudely bumped into him. When Ferdinand reached Dorothea’s landing, he was surprised to see her door already open.

He stepped into the apartment. A table had been overturned. A vase, once filled with flowers, had shattered on the floor, water leaking through the boards. The drapes had been sundered from their rods. Someone had removed all the cushions from her chairs.

Dorothea stood in the midst of this mess, talking to a constable. Her voice was frantic, and the constable kept questioning even the smallest details she gave him. 

When she heard Ferdinand enter, she spun around, and said, “I do not need your help!”

“Again, Dorothea? This is the third time in a month.”

“Lord von Aegir,” the constable stammered. “I did not realize you were acquainted with this woman.”

Dorothea crossed her arms. “Acquainted is too strong a word. What are you doing here?”

“Perhaps I heard you had another burglary,” Ferdinand lied.

“And why would that be any of your concern?”

“Am I not permitted be concerned about a dear old friend of mine?”

“We have not been friends in over two decades.”

“Oh, is that correct?” Ferdinand picked up the broken hull of the vase and tried to rest the flower he bought inside. “I can recall a few occasions when that certainly was not the case.”

Dorothea reddened. “Oh, so you are just here to vex me again, aren’t you?”

“Sir, I will handle these proceedings myself,” Ferdinand said to the constable. “You may tell your magistrate to expect a full report from me personally on this matter, and I expect it to be handled with haste.”

The constable nodded nervously. He half saluted, half bowed, and then scrambled out of the apartment.

“Are you not concerned that you are being targeted?” Ferdinand asked. “Three home invasions in less than a moon. You are clearly in danger, and you must relocate.”

“Probably just old church supporters, doing what they do best. Harassing me because I sided against them in the war,” Dorothea said. She began to collect books from her floor. “I have friends in the countryside. I have thought to go visit them, at least until these celebrations are over.”

“I think that is a wise decision.” Ferdinand felt a wave of relief. “Allow me at least post a guard at your door until then.”

“I have told you again and again,” Dorothea said. “Such things will only make my life more difficult. People here don’t trust your government, and if they think I am associated with you, they will not trust me either.”

“You are incredibly obstinate,” Ferdinand said. “I have availed you with every opportunity for a better life—”

“Obstinate? Me? Says the man who can’t take no for an answer—”

“You are under assault! Am I supposed to abandon you in your hour—”

“Why are you really here, Ferdinand?” she hissed. It was hard to believe that he would ever miss her old pet name for him, but nobody could say his full name with the same acerbity as Dorothea.

This was a familiar routine. He had made it habit to visit once or twice a year, and Dorothea’s disdain for him had only increased over the years. She refused any of his charity or aid; he had offered to get her a job before, but she had snidely turned him down. Of course, there had been periods of almost peace—times when he had almost won her over. There were even two years there that he almost convinced her to—he shook the memory away. It made his heart ache to think about it. As with all their little armistices, their friendship inevitably imploded, and their relationship often became worse than it had been before.

“There’s a reunion for Garreg Mach in Fhirdiad,” Ferdinand said. “I was wondering if you would like to attend as my guest. Perhaps instead of the countryside, going north would do you good.”

Dorothea scoffed. “As the former personal guard of Lady Edelgard, I doubt I am invited.”

“Nonsense,” Ferdinand said. “I am certain our old friends would be pleased to see you again. Bernadetta shall attend and—”

Dorothea crossed her arms. “What do you really want?”

“I must protest—”

“Out with it!”

Ferdinand sighed. “You’ve heard all this nonsense coming out of Faerghus about Edelgard’s return?”

Dorothea held a hand up. She snuck to her door, looked both ways down her corridor, and then pushed the broken door closed as far as it would go. “You know, there are still quite a few supporters of hers around here.”

“Yes, well, I can hardly blame them,” Ferdinand said. “You know, Dorothea, I did everything I could to oppose her execution.” Dorothea sat down at her tea table. Ferdinand had to move a overturned teacup to sit beside her. There was little room in the small flat, and their knees knocked together under the table.

“Look, I know that Dimitri and Claude probably think that I’m still probably a, what do they call it? Ah, a seditious character, but I’m not,” Dorothea said. “I have faithfully abided by the terms of my parole. Send your spies after me. Interrogate my neighbors. They will all say the same.”

“I believe you,” Ferdinand said. “But I must do my due diligence. If there is anything you know, it would assist us greatly.”

Gray began to tease at the roots of Dorothea’s hair. She still had a beautiful face, almost bereft of wrinkles except for fine lines around her mouth and eyes. For some reason, of all of Ferdinand’s regrets, Dorothea’s situation was the one that wore at him the most. As a child, he had given her the world, and as an adult, he had fought to steal it back again.

“What do you want to know?” Dorothea asked.

“Have you been in touch with Caspar?”

“He only visits me when he comes to Enbarr once a year,” Dorothea said. “Last I heard from him, he was off wrestling bears or hunting wolves up in Fodlan’s Throat.”

“All right, and what about Petra?”

“I am not permitted to receive intelligence from Brigid,” Dorothea said. “Considering how much trouble it got me into the last time your people intercepted our letters, I have not been eager to try again.”

“Fair enough. And…” He hesitated. “I must ask, Dorothea. Have you by any chance found out what happened to Linhardt?”

“Still chasing after Linhardt?” Dorothea asked. “Thought you all had given up by now.”

“He’s become somewhat of a folk hero amongst the more radical sects,” Ferdinand said. “His research on the removal of crests has attracted attention from extremists. They believe that if you extricate the crests from the nobility, the class problems will solve themselves.”

“His research was a failure. You know that. Didn’t stop the church from prosecuting him. You wonder what was so radical about that research anyways.”

“The Church has always maintained a vested interest in the preservation of crest bloodlines.”

“Ah, that’s right. They want to make sure they can continue to control us. Well, I’ll tell you the same thing I have always told you. When Linhardt disappeared, he didn’t tell any of us where he was going.” She added after a second, “Poor Linhardt.”

“Why poor Linhardt?”

“Because he never wanted any of this,” Dorothea said. “All he ever wanted was a quiet life spent pursuing his research. And after what happened with Lysithea…”

Ferdinand swallowed hard. This was a difficult subject.

Dorothea was on a rampage, however. “You forget that more than anyone else, Lysithea betrayed him. She used him. Exploited his affection for her to infiltrate our army and betray us. How do you expect me to forgive her? Of course, by the time that Merceus was destroyed, you had also betrayed us.”

“You speak of the inability to forgive,” Ferdinand said. “And yet you are entirely unsympathetic to my own reasons for leaving the Imperial Army. You forgot what Edelgard did to my family—”

“What she did to your father, who by your own admission, was a crook!”

“My father and I had a complicated relationship, to be sure,” Ferdinand said. “But he was not entirely evil, and to cast him aside so cruelly and allow him to be murdered by the mobs is hardly justice for a man who devoted his life—both good and bad—for the Empire.”

“Now, now, we’re not an Empire. You must call it the Republic.”

“I am trying to help you, Dorothea, yet you persist in your obstinance.”

“If you were truly our friend and ally as you claim, you would have seen the truth spelled out clearly in front of you.”

Ferdinand folded his hands and leaned forward. “You do know something.”

“I know nothing but what you know. The difference is that I know Edie well enough to see what is missing from this picture.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“I would have thought it would have been obvious to you of all people,” Dorothea said. “But you have places to be. Go, enjoy your reunion. Say hello to all of our old classmates for me.”

* * *

_And here’s the way it went: At the beginning, the progenitor god awoke within Byleth’s breast and led Claude to victory. Fodlan was unified. The seas rose. And all the world was drowned._

* * *

Annette’s hair was damp and snarled from a long journey in the rain. Her face had grown soft over the years, and deep bags now lined her eyes. She appeared afraid, Dimitri realized. In her hands, she clutched a letter.

“Give that to me,” he snarled.

“It’s from—”

“I know.”

He unfurled the parchment. All it said was “With great excitement do I regard our class reunion at the festivities in Fhirdiad. I hope there is room for the Black Eagles at the table.”

“She will be targeting the anniversary celebrations,” Dimitri said. Black fringed the edges of his vision. “We will have to cancel it.”

“No!” came another voice. This was a softer voice, more mellow in its timbre, yet full of strength. Dimitri turned to Marianne, who stood in the doorway. Due to the late hour, she wore only her dressing robe, her long hair loose around her shoulders. “Annette, thank you so much for bringing this to us. Please rest now.”

Annette gave a hesitant smile. She tripped over own feet in a curtsey before scrambling out of the room. The royal couple was now alone.

“She is taunting us now,” Dimitri said. “There were always rumors that she lived, but this—” Dimitri crumpled the note in his hand. “An insult! We need to act immediately.”

“Byleth promised to return on the anniversary,” Marianne said. “Please Dimitri…the people have been looking forward to this. By canceling it, you’ll cancel their hope.”

Dimitri sighed. “Marianne, I cannot with good faith abide by an attack on our capital. If we know she is coming—”

“I…I just don’t understand. Why would she tell us if she planned an attack?” Marianne asked. “Maybe I don’t know much about these things, but isn’t cancelling the celebration what they want? Tensions are already high, Dimitri. We need the people on our side, now more than ever.”

Dimitri’s sobered quickly. His anger had gotten the better of him, but Marianne was correct. He could always count on her calm counsel, and she could usually coax him out of a temper. Margrave Edmund had trained her well for her role as queen, and the years had given her more confidence in reigning beside Dimitri.

“Marianne, what would you have me do?”

Marianne came to him, and he unfurled in her arms. Her fingers in his hair, his head against her breast, Dimitri experienced a moment of respite amid the turmoil of his heart. The voices quieted—they did not silence completely.

“Rest,” Marianne said. “Please, sleep before you make any rash decisions.”

“We have no time for—”

“We have enough time,” Marianne said. “Speak to your counsel. You have allies, Dimitri. You sometimes forget that.”

Dimitri inhaled deeply. He tried to forget himself in the feeling of her arms and the smell of her perfume. But the darkness had already taken root. It knotted in his gut. When he closed his eyes, he saw not his wife but _her_ —Edelgard.

“You always seem to know when I’m about to come undone,” Dimitri said.

Marianne sighed. “Um… that is not why I came to find you.”

Dimitri pulled away. A flare of annoyance crumbled in the gravel of his voice. “Where is he this time?”

“Oh, I don’t make you upset but…Anton has not returned home—”

“Marianne, we’ve discussed this—”

“This is the third night in a row,” Marianne said. “I cannot help but feel that his continued avoidance of us is my fault.”

“It is not your fault,” Dimitri said. “Marianne, you must cease with the blaming.” Tears brimmed on Marianne’s eyelashes. Dimitri thumbed loose droplets away. “Marianne, he adores you. It is me that he avoids. I have somehow become the emblem of all of his problems. He’ll have to grow up sooner rather than later. He will be needed soon.”

“You must talk to him—”

“Words have always failed on that boy—”

“Really talk to him,” Marianne said. “Before it is too late and we lose our son forever.”

* * *

_And here’s the way it went: At the beginning, the progenitor god awoke within Byleth’s breast and she turned against Edelgard and led the Church to victory. Fodlan was unified. The seas rose. And all the world was still drowned._

* * *

Annette lived in her own house in Fhirdiad, just across the street from Dedue and Ashe. But they were not around much since she had returned, and she knew she would find them in the palace, whispering over maps and scale models of the army. Annette needed some time to collect herself before going back. The idea of entering the war room gave her a sense of anxiety that she had felt in years.

On her desk came a letter from urgent post—flown overnight all the way from Leicester. It amazed her how quickly the news spread. Mages uttered reports into speaking portals. Pegasi and wyverns carried it through the sky, and now Mercedes had written her, promising to come up early for the celebrations with her sons.

But a few days had passed, and Annette could no longer avoid confronting the truth. Edelgard was here. She had seen her with her own eyes.

The guards at the palace knew Annette well. She was given free roam over the premises. It was as if the tension had sucked all the air from the castle. Whispers followed her down the corridors. The guards were on high alert, their steely faces betraying the anxieties of Edelgard’s reappearance.

As she approached the war room, however, the silence gave way to raucous debate.

She opened the door. The former Blue Lions had all assembled around a large table. Dimitri was pacing the length of the room. Dedue leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching his liege. Ingrid was bent over the table, furiously scribbling something, as Sylvain and Felix argued.

“Annette, you have arrived,” Ashe said, trying to sound cheerful but failing.

Felix clenched a letter in his hand. He kept talking over Ashe and only acknowledged Annette’s entrance with a nod of the head.

“And he wrote Bernadetta asking her if she has any intel on the former Black Eagles,” he said.

“Who is this?” Annette asked.

“Ferdinand von Aegir,” Sylvain explained. “He has also heard the news.”

Once again, news traveled fast. Annette tried to quell the growing fear in her belly. When she was younger and scared of ghosts, she would gather with her classmates and they would go exploring in the dark parts of Garreg Mach. She had felt a similar fear then—a fear of the unknown that slowly grew and unfurled until someone screamed “Seteth!” and they would all take off, shrieking and laughing. Now the fear just grew and grew, and she worried that when the specter appeared, they would not be able to escape.

Felix continued: “Ferdinand has been tracking the former Black Eagles for years now. His particular pet project is locating Linhardt von Hevring, who escaped custody over twenty years ago and has not been seen since.”

“Does he really think Bernie of all people knows where he is?” Sylvain asked.

Dimitri slammed his fist against the wall. “Those radicals that fester in the docks of Fhirdiad. They adore Linhardt von Hevring. He is their idol. A man who devoted his life to researching the removal of crests. Edelgard’s letter said that she wanted room for the Black Eagles. Linhardt is the only one we can’t account for.”

“Do you really think that these radical sects are associated with Edelgard’s return?”

“Many of them do profess to be Edelgardians,” Dedue said.

“There are many crazy conspiracies in the docks,” Annette said. “Almyran sympathizers. Crest supremacists. It’s impossible tell who might be involved.”

“Felix, your wife was a Black Eagle,” Dimitri said. “You will have to get her to help us where she can.”

“She won’t like it.”

“Too bad. If Linhardt von Hevring has anything to do with it, I want him found. Ferdinand will be arriving for the celebrations soon. You can work with him.”

“Fine. But I really think this might be a distraction from the real threat,” Felix said.

“I also want a sweep of the Waterside District. I want a full report of all the radical activities going on down there, especially in regard to the Edelgardian movement,” Dimitri said. “We must crush this before she can get a foothold.”

“You should ask Marianne to contact Claude and see what he knows,” Sylvain said. “And perhaps to see if Claude knows…” He let the sentence drift off. Dimitri shot him a withering look. “Nevermind.”

“Finish that sentence, Sylvain.”

“Look, maybe we need Byleth for this one,” Sylvain said. “I know, she’s been gone for, what, twenty years? But Claude was closer to her than anyone. He has to know something about where she went.”

The idea gave Annette a shred of hope. Byleth was always able to miraculously solve problems. Byleth had an uncanny way of knowing the right answer. But they had tried time and time again to find Byleth, but she had never resurfaced after she disappeared. At first, they had all thought it was another five-year sleep, but five years came and went. Then another five. All hope had slowly disappeared. 

“Fine,” Dimitri said gruffly. “I will ask Marianne to write Claude, but we cannot depend on the hope that Byleth will appear.”

“I need to go,” Felix said curtly. “I have a long ride back to Fraldarius if I’m going to explain this all to Bernie.” His exit broke up the meeting. The Gautiers trailed out after him. Dedue lingered just long enough to ensure that Dimitri was well before he departed with Ashe.

Annette remained, however. She wrung her hands uselessly, trying to dredge up something that wasn’t dire.

“In better news, Mercedes is coming up early,” Annette told Dimitri. She wasn’t sure why she thought the news might cheer him up. “It will be a proper reunion.” 

“Everyone will be here soon,” Dimitri said. “Blue Lion. Golden Deer.” He paused before adding, “Black Eagle.”

“We will be safer than ever, at least,” Annette tried to chirp.

“Or a bigger target,” Dimitri said.

“What do you think she wants?”

“That is what frightens me, Annette,” Dimitri said. “I don’t know, but I cannot shake the feeling that we are in danger.”

A knock came at the door. Dimitri shook off the fog and barked for them to enter. A young man walked into the room, shoulders hunched and eyes already rolling. 

“Well, if it isn’t the poet himself,” Dimitri said.

Anton Blaiddyd had grown considerably taller since the last time Annette had seen him. Dressed in a ribbed coat of Faerghus blue and black, his long blond hair tied back in a white ribbon, he appeared every bit a prince. His mother’s melting brown eyes crowned his face. He didn’t even acknowledge his father or Annette as he walked in and poured himself a glass of wine.

“Mother said you wished to see me,” Anton said.

“Little Anton, it has been so long,” Annette smiled.

“You’ve been gone for a week this time,” Dimitri said.

“Really? Wow, time flies when you’re not being suffocated in the palace,” Anton said.

“It is time, Anton, that you begin to take on your responsibility as crown prince of Faerghus,” Dimitri said. “Lose the rebellious act. You must grow up now.”

“It is not an act, father,” Anton said. “And this country has been in danger a lot longer than you care to admit. The labor abuses at the manufactories, the overcrowding, the lack of amenities to the lower classes—”

“This is not the time for your enlightened politics,” Dimitri growled.

“—all of which you turn a blind eye to, and now you’re shocked that all the people are turning towards extreme political bents—”

“Anton, do you ever stop your prattling to think about the practical needs of this country—”

“—and yeah, I heard about Emperor Edelgard, Father. You’re so obsessed with the past, that you’re willing to believe baseless rumors about a dead person.”

“They’re not rumors,” Annette said. “I saw her myself.”

This caught Anton by surprise. “Well, still doesn’t solve all the other problems going on in this nation,” he said, flustered.

“I want you at my advisory meeting tomorrow morning,” Dimitri said. “And if I do not see you there, I will turn over this whole city to find whatever brothel you have been hiding in.”

“You know, dad, most sons don’t have to work this hard at getting disinherited.”

“You are dismissed,” Dimitri said. “I better see you there tomorrow.”

Anton rolled his eyes. Father and son collided at the door as they exited. Anton mockingly bowed and gestured for his father to go first.

For some reason, Annette chose to follow Anton instead of Dimitri. It was no secret that Anton and Dimitri had a contentious relationship. Their arguments had become increasingly public, and Anton shied away from his official duties whenever he could. His long disappearances attracted their fair share of rumors.

“Anton, wait!” Annette called after him. He groaned and turned around.

“What do you want?”

“Please have some compassion for your father,” Annette said. “I know he can be a difficult man, but he is trying his best, and there is a crisis going on.”

“Well, I’m trying _my_ best, and I’m not his clone,” Anton said. “I have my own life, as hard as that is to believe. I’m not fit to be King, Professor Dominic. I can recognize that. Quite frankly, I think if the Edelgardians have one thing right, it’s that the whole idea of hereditary sovereignty is screwed up. The best thing I can do for this nation is to convince my father to disinherit me. _That_ is my royal duty.”

“And your mother? Marianne is—”

“Don’t get me started on that,” Anton said. “I’ve already reached my litmus for guilt for the week, and I’m all spent up on compassion.”

“So are you just going to abandon your father and your nation?” Annette asked.

Anton scrunched up his face. “I’ll be there tomorrow morning. But I need to get drunk first.”

“Alcohol will not solve your problems,” Annette said.

“And sucking up to my dad won’t solve them either.” He waved. “If someone asks where I am, just do me a favor and tell everyone that I’m passed out in a gutter in Tailors-gate.”

“You want me to lie for you now?” Annette asked. She assumed her teacher voice, the voice of authority that allowed the small woman to hold command over a lecture of a hundred students student. 

“It’s not lying,” Anton said. “I will probably end up in a gutter by night’s end.” 

“Why would you want people to think that about you?”

“Because I don’t care what they think I’m doing.” Anton winked. “I don’t want them to know where I am while I’m doing it.”

* * *

_And here’s the way it went: At the beginning, the progenitor god awoke within Byleth’s breast. This time she was not going to play by the rules. This time, she would save them all, and with it, the world._

_For if Byleth was the beginning, then who was the end?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Romance of the World's Perdition is such a weird in-game text but definitely evocative as far as fanfic goes. Like what's with this flood that Agarthans are afraid of? Why is Sothis called the Beginning? Basically, this will be a pretty lore heavy fic with lots of ships and intertwining storylines. The first chapter is a bit of an info dump, but there will be plenty of action and lots of mysteries! As the plot unfolds, I'd love to hear all of your theories in the comments below!


	2. The Waterside Radicals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spymaster Lysithea arrives to Fhirdiad, and Felix discovers a murder that may bring them closer to Linhardt von Hevring. Anton meets with his friends in the Waterside District.

By the time Lysithea von Ordelia’s carriage rolled up to the gates of Faerghus palace, it had survived an onslaught. Cracked eggs smeared against the door and eaves. The shells snagged on Lysithea’s black gown as she stepped out of the carriage. Grimacing, she tried to shake off shards and yolk. 

What an entrance this would be. A class reunion after twenty-five years to celebrate the end of the War of Unification, and Lysithea showed up in a carriage dripping with eggs.

“Well, I see they gave you the ol’ Fhirdiad welcome.”

Lysithea spun around. Sylvain Gautier leaned against a decorative pillar. His boyish good-looks had not faded over the years. Instead, they only became more distinguished, as smile lines crowned his mirthful eyes. His red hair had darkened with age, and somewhere along the way, he had learned how to run a comb through it. He had visited Leicester a handful of times in the past few years, but this was the first time that Lysithea had seen him on his home turf.

“Is this how you welcome people in Faerghus?” Lysithea huffed.

“Eh, the political situation is a bit tetchy in Fhirdiad,” Sylvain said with a shrug. “What can you do? At least it was only eggs.” He grinned. “I see you’ve brought guests.”

Sylvain was looking over Lysithea’s shoulder at a pair of teenagers poking their heads from the carriage.

“I suppose you haven’t met my children,” Lysithea said. She gestured for them to come to her. The elder child was a tall, waifish girl with a sharp, angular face. “This is my daughter, Corisande.” Corisande crossed her arms, as though she was trying to fold into herself and disappear. Beneath her fringe of lilac hair, her blue eyes darted nervously away from Sylvain’s gaze. “And my son, Theodorus.”

“Ah, young Theo, you’re Lukas Gloucester’s partner-in-crime,” Sylvain said, hands on his knees. Theo was the younger child, his white hair brushed neatly to one side. He shared Lysithea’s bright pink eyes. “I heard a story about an exploding keg last Saint Macuil’s Day.”

“That was mostly Lukas,” Lysithea said hastily. “My children are very well behaved.”

Sylvain laughed. He leaned forward and whispered to Theo. “Mine aren’t.”

“And how many children do you have these days, Sylvain?” Lysithea asked.

“Ah, who can keep count anymore,” Sylvain said. “Emma seems to be about Theo’s age, though. And, uh, how old are you Corisande?”

Corisande curled inward as he said her name.

“Nineteen,” she said softly.

“Well, I should introduce you to my boys. I’m sure they’d be happy to show you around.” Sylvain winked, and Corisande flinched. “Well, come on then. Dimitri’s had the whole palace prepared for this event. Claude’s had his fingers in it too, so you know it will be a good time.”

As servants hauled away their trunks, Sylvain guided Lysitha and her children through the courtyard of Castle Blaiddyd. They passed through the Great Hall with its grand leonine banners and through the corridors to the western wing, where most of the guests of state would be residing.

“And this business about Edelgard reappearing?” Lysithea said as they walked along. Corisande cringed as her mother spoke. The news seemed to make the girl nervous.

“Ah, yeah, that.” Sylvain rubbed the back of his head. “It’s all happening out west. You’re perfectly safe in Fhirdiad.”

“I would like to speak to King Dimitri about these events,” Lysithea said. “As Spymaster for the Triumvirate, if Edelgard has returned as a threat, I ought to be consulted, don’t you think?”

“Straight to business as always, aren’t you?” Sylvain groaned. He couldn’t wait for some of his other classmates to join them. Claude would be down for a good party. Where was Claude? “Well, if you have any intelligence, Dimitri would love to hear it. Otherwise, you better have a damn good plan in place when you meet him. He wants everything settled before the anniversary ball.”

“Is the celebration still going through?” Lysithea asked. “I hear there are two weeks of festivities planned. That’s two weeks’ worth of headaches about security.”

Sylvain nodded. “It would be too big of a blow to morale to cancel it. Felix is handling security.”

“I’ll have to speak to him as well,” Lysithea said.

“Lysithea, can I ask a question. An honest question?” She nodded. “Do you really think that Edelgard has returned?”

“I think that it would be unwise to dismiss the possibility considering the circumstances,” Lysithea said. “I’ve been tracking the Edelgardian movement for some years now. They are growing stronger, and all of a sudden, they have picked Fhirdiad to be their base? A little convenient, don’t you think? Why else would Edelgard come to Faerghus first and not her native Adrestia?”

“You think they’ve been in Fhirdiad for years?”

Lysithea shrugged. “I do not know what these lunatics think. That is why we must be vigilant.”

They had come to Lysithea’s chambers. Sylvain spared another glance towards Corisande. Her face had gone wan, and she had chewed so thoroughly at her lip that it bled.

“Well, in any case,” Sylvain said, directing his words to Corisande. “Your mother is great at her job. She’ll make sure we’ll weed out the Edelgardians.”

“I’m not worried about Edelgard,” Corisande said softly.

“Oh? Then why the long face?”

Lysithea coughed loudly. “Corisande suffers from a nervous constitution. You’ll have to forgive her if she is a bit…skittish at times.”

Corisande’s gaze turned cold and dark. A palpable tension strained between mother and daughter. Sylvain suddenly felt very awkward. He glanced towards Theo; the young boy turned his head away, trying to avoid the scene.

“If you will excuse us, Sylvain,” Lysithea said. “We’re exhausted.” She grabbed her daughter and pulled her into the bedroom. Theo lingered outside, a strange expression of his face, as though he was trying to decide if he should follow his mother and sister or not.

“I’m going to explore,” he declared to Sylvain. “If my mother asks…Just tell her I’m safe, okay?” He disappeared down the hallway before Sylvain could protest.

 _What an odd family,_ Sylvain thought. 

* * *

Just outside of the gates of the place, near the cistern where the water ran out into the sewers, there was a loose stone that, when removed, revealed a small cavity in the wall. As a child, back when Anton was still on speaking terms with the Fraldarius twins, he had left notes for his playmates to discover in the recess. Now that he was older, he reserved the cavity for a few odd bits of clothing.

In the dark alley way, he traded his silk blouse for a homespun shirt with wooden buttons. His fine embroidered surcoat was replaced by a long woolen peacoat, dyed black in the style of the young radicals that thronged the coffee houses in the Waterside District. Even his shoes he replaced with scuffed leather boots tied up with fraying laces. Finally, he loosed the ribbon holding back his hair and ruffled his blond locks so that it looked as though he hadn’t brushed it in weeks.

Stuffing his old clothes into the cavity, he replaced the stone and slipped off into the night.

He was no longer Prince Anton Edmund Blaiddyd.

“Danny!” cried a voice as he passed the bridge into the Waterside district. The man, a ship’s clerk named Nestor, ran a small press out of his one-bedroom apartment. “I got Geb’s piece off the press just yesterday. He said that you helped him with it.”

“Aye,” Anton said, sliding into the Waterside dialect. He felt more natural speaking in the common way. There was no pretension to the language out here. “But I told him to take out the part about a theocratic autocracy. I told him that this was the wrong audience.”

Nestor shrugged. “Those Adrestians have no problem speaking blasphemy. And ol’ Geb’s never cared about pleasing anyone, least of all his audience.”

“Where is he about now?”

“Said he was going down to the Scrub tonight, so probably getting beat up by Liesl’s men right about now.”

Anton groaned. “I really didn’t want to have to pick a fight with Liesl tonight.”

“You don’t have to do anything,” Nestor said. “The boy has got to learn his lesson at some point.”

“I can’t just leave Geb like that,” Anton said. “What would Selma say?”

The Scrub was a tavern near the docks. It took its name from the local’s sailor’s slang for bootleg gin—“so strong you could scrub the decks with it.” On a good night, Anton avoided the place. Liesl Prentice ran the institution, and Anton learned early in his Waterside days to avoid her.

Geb, on the other hand, seemed to desperate to be murdered by her.

Sure enough, just as Nestor said, Geb was already being thrown against the wall by two hulking shiphands. One held him down as the other rooted in Geb’s coat pockets. He pulled out wads of paper, several small pocketbooks, a charcoal pencil, and various pins, coins, and lint. 

Anton breathed in sharply, collecting himself and concentrating on the flow of blood in his veins, before tackling the sailor. He heard the faint ring of his crest echo in his pulse. He pulled one off Geb and tossed him on the hard-cobbled road, before grabbing the other and delivering a swift punch to the face. The man was strong, but Anton’s crest flared inside him, providing a burst of strength to swing him onto the ground next to his buddy.

“Daniel Eberton,” scowled one of the men. “Liesl warned you about coming here.”

“Hello, Raul. Give her my regards,” Anton said.

“We did not pick this fight,” said Raul. He flexed his arms to display the clench of muscle. “Geb came here to start shit.”

“And I did admirably well at it too,” Geb pinched his bleeding nose. His dark green hair, normally coiffed in the lopsided combover so favored by the youth, stuck straight up. “A sound beating for all! Except for Danny. Would you like a beating, Danny? I feel bad that you were left out.”

“Liesl no longer thinks you so charming, Breslin,” Raul said. “She’s getting impatient.”

“Impatient for what? You all sure have some strange ideas about me,” Geb said. “If Liesl is going to spread rumors about me, she may as well have the decency to make them interesting.”

“What rumors now?” Anton asked. Raul turned cagey. He backed towards the tavern. Geb tracked him with his eyes, a smirk twinging at the corner of his lips.

“Ask him. If he is your friend, perhaps he’ll tell you,” Raul said. “But Liesl doesn’t want you her in her business, Eberton.” He signaled to the other man and they disappeared into the Scrub.

Anton bent down to help Geb collect his scattered papers from the gutter. Geb absently stuffed them back into his pockets.

“So are you going to tell me?” Anton asked.

“Why does everyone think I’m the one with secrets?” Geb said. “Have you met my cousin Selma? She’s way more mysterious than I am.”

“Selma stays out of other people’s business,” Anton said. “Is this about that crest conspiracy?”

“Liesl is insane, and not in the fun way that I am,” Geb said. “She really believes this schtick that we can round up all the nobles and pluck out their crests. She found some man in the old Empire who was researching this crap during the war.”

“So why did you come here?”

“Eh, you know Liesl. She’s nuts. I can’t have her spreading rumors. I’ve already been thrown in the tank three times since I moved to Faerghus. The last thing I need are the coppers at my door because they think I have some connection with a war criminal who probably died before I was even born.”

“I would rather bother with the coppers than Liesl,” Anton said. “She may be crazy, but she is powerful around these parts.”

“Liesl bothers with us,” Geb said. “Sooner or later, we will have to put our foots down.”

Anton and Geb started down the narrow alleys of Waterside. The oil-lamps along the street reflected puddles of light in the night. Blocks of tenements walled the streets. Candlelight warmed the windows. They passed clumps of singing drunkards, lovers arm-in-arm, crowds of smoking men outside of taverns, the midnight post stuffing letters through doors. The night seemed so alive in the city, not like the palace where once the sun disappeared, the halls turned dead. 

“Do you think Selma will notice?” Geb asked, as they climbed the stairs of his narrow close.

“What? That your nose is bleeding or that your eye is three times as large?”

“You’re right. I’ll have to come up with a convincing excuse,” Geb said as he fumbled for his key. As usual, he forgot it. A scrape of metal announced the door unlatching from the other side. A tall slender figure appeared in the opening of the door. Her dark hair pooled around her shoulders, and those apple-green eyes narrowed. 

“What happened?” Selma Breslin asked immediately.

“Dear cousin Selma,” Geb said. “Danny beat me up.” Anton released a gasp of indignation. Selma raised a single eyebrow.

“Oh, does Danny work for Liesl now?”

“Ugh, Selma! You always take his side! We’re related. You have to believe me!”

Anton stepped into the small apartment. It had two whole rooms—luxurious for this part of town, but compared to the palace, even Anton’s bedroom was larger than the entirety of the apartment. The main room was crowded with Selma’s easel and canvases of half-finished paintings. Geb’s drafts and pens cluttered the table.

“Are you okay, Danny?” Selma searched his face for any sign of scuffle.

“Nah, Raul’s not good enough to get a hit on me,” Danny said. “I heard a terrible rumor about Geb, and it gave me a chance to beat up a gangster.”

“You are worse than Geb, sometimes, you know that?” Selma said.

“Oh really?” Anton reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of lozenges wrapped in blue foil. “Because I don’t think Geb brought you cinnamon candies.” Selma’s eyes lit up. She smiled as she reached for them. He playfully tried to pull them away, but Selma was almost as tall as he was. She easily pried the treasure from him.

“Fine. You’re forgiven.”

Geb gasped with indignation. “You brought _her_ candy? What about _me_ , Danny?” He scoffed and sighed and snorted. “I see how this is. You don’t want to go down this road, you know. Her dad’s terrifying, her sister’s a goblin, and if you marry her, you’ll technically be related to me.”

Selma rolled her eyes, but the taunt only made Anton grin. Selma _was_ very pretty—tall with that dark sable hair and that sweet heart-shaped face. Were he not a prince in disguise, he might have made a move. But his true identity complicated things.

“Yeah, yeah, I took care of you too.” Anton tossed the rest of the candies at Geb. They struck the floorboards like glittering hail. 

Geb snatched up a foiled candy. He then threw himself dramatically over a dusty velvet chaise lounge that Anton had helped scavenge from an out-of-business haberdashery. Geb held a firm reign on the couch, and this gave Danny an excuse to sit next to Selma on the window seat. She already dressed in her nightgown, covered modestly by a red dressing robe that was twenty- years out of style.

“It has been a very productive day,” Geb announced with two candies stuck in his cheek. “First, I managed to sneak a few eggs onto the von Ordelia carriage, and then I showed Liesl what’s what.”

“You mean Danny showed Liesl,” Selma said. 

“Wait,” Anton said. “You were the one who attacked Lysithea von Ordelia’s carriage?”

“I see news has already spread of my great misrule,” Geb said. He had a smug smile on his face. “Serves her right.”

“Why do you hate Ordelia so much?” Anton asked, sucking on a candy. “I swear you’ve been counting down the days since you heard she would get here.”

“Because she’s a fraud, a thief, and a hack,” Geb said. “Danny, we should all be protesting against the role of a Spymaster. It’s nothing more than surveillance, control, and subterfuge. You’ve read my editorial. You should know all this already.”

“Don’t encourage him, Danny,” Selma said. She had clearly heard this rant once or a hundred times before. “Geb has a knack for picking fights with people he can’t win against.”

“Well, be careful,” Anton said. “I can scare off Liesl’s thugs, but if you’re going after a noble, there’s nothing I can do there.” Lies, lies, technically lies. A prince probably could do _something_.

“I threw a few eggs. It’s not like I’m assassinating anyone,” Geb said, putting his feet up on the table. As he did so, knocked over a pile of parcels. A strange expression crossed Geb’s face. He reached over and picked up a wooden cube that had tumbled out from a parcel. Deep grooves lined the cube. Geb twisted the sides in his hands.

“Your father sent it along with this week’s letter,” Selma told Geb.

“What is it?” Anton asked.

“When we were small, my dad used to make these boxes,” Geb said. “Puzzle boxes. I would spend hours trying to crack them. I guess now that my father no longer writes, he’s trying to communicate in a way that doesn’t require him expressing his feelings or words or regret at having a useless son.”

“Your father writes. You don’t read,” Selma said.

Geb began twisting the cube along its wooden grooves. “He used to hide marshmallows in the middle. Knowing him, he’s probably forgot I’m halfway across Fodlan. How much you want to bet it’s melted?”

“Will you be staying with us again tonight, Danny?” Selma asked as she began to brush through her hair again. Anton wanted to. He spent so much time in the Breslin apartment, he might as well pay rent.

“I can’t. My father wishes me to attend a…business meeting tomorrow morning.”

“I thought your dad was a bricklayer,” Geb said as he worked over the puzzle.

“Oh, please, you knew that was a lie,” Selma said. “He’s too bougie to be a laborer’s son.”

“Haha,” Anton said. “As if you can speak. Your father is a landowner, Selma, isn’t he?”

“Yeah, but it’s Rusalka,” she shot back. “You can’t even pay people to get rid of your land there. It doesn’t count in the same way that being a merchant’s son from Fhirdiad does.” That’s what they thought of him. Not that he was a secret prince. Just a secret oligarch.

“Yeah,” Geb said. “We usually avoid telling people that we’re from that part of Adrestia. I like to tell people that we’re from somewhere fashionable and cool and wealthy, like Hrym. Ah, damnit.” He had cracked the box. “I was really hoping that there would be a rotten marshmallow inside. It’s just a stupid letter.” He unfurled the note for a second, his eyes drinking in the scrawl on the sheet, before he crumpled it up and flicked it towards Selma. “Here, you can have it. I’m going to bed.”

“Don’t you think you should read this, Geb?”

“Nah, he expects you to read them anyways” Geb said. The door shut.

“Geb’s in a real mood tonight, eh?” Anton enjoyed having a moment alone with Selma. She was wearing her hair outside of its usual braid, and she smelled suspiciously like the rosewater he had given her.

“I thought you two bonded over your mutual daddy issues.”

“Funny, Sellie,” Anton said. “Look, I’m worried about this Liesl business. Are you and Geb going to be all right?”

“Yes,” Selma said. “We can defend ourselves.”

“Really?” Anton raised an eyebrow.

Selma pondered this. “I have a dagger!” spoken as though this was some great rebuttal. “My mother gave it to me before I left Rusalka.”

“Ah, yes, the dagger. Last time, I saw it, it was as dull as a butter knife. Also, do you even know how to use that thing?”

Selma bit her cheek. “You take the pointy end and you stick it in their face?” Anton’s face fell. “We’ll be fine, Danny. Liesl is too interested in Geb to want to kill him.”

Part of Anton wanted to remain there that night, just to make sure that they were safe. But he knew that Dimitri would raise hell if he wasn’t back in time for the daily meeting. He couldn’t risk his father sending the knights after him. Then everyone in Waterside would know who he was.

“Promise me you won’t do anything dumb?”

“You know that I won’t.”

“Promise me Geb won’t do anything dumb?”

Selma laughed. “No, siree. I promised my uncle that once, and I’ve regretted it ever since.”

“I should go,” he said with a sigh. He wanted to stay longer. Eventually, Geb would come out of his room, and they would drink the last of the cider while arguing about wharf politics. But the longer he stayed, the harder it would be to leave.

It was time to become a prince again.

* * *

The next morning, Lysithea opened the door of her chambers to find herself face-to-face with no other than the Queen of Faerghus and her ne’er-do-well son. Marianne wore a gown of dark blue velvet and a necklace stamped with the sigil of Blaiddyd. She appeared so regal now, having grown into the role of queen over the years. 

“Marianne! It is so good to see you!”

Marianne hugged Lysithea. “It has been too long.”

“And little Anton,” Lysithea said. “Not so little anymore, eh?”

Anton pressed an artificial smile to his face. “Spymaster,” he greeted.

That was a bit odd. “You can call me Aunty Lysithea,” she said. Anton stifled a laugh. Marianne looked at him in horror, and he sobered up quickly.

“My apologies,” he deadpanned. “That was rude.”

Marianne sighed. “Well, if you’d like, we can walk down to the war room together. I heard you wished to sit in on the discussions about Edelgard.”

Lysithea nodded. She checked back on the children. They had taken breakfast out on the balcony of their chambers. Corisande was just pushing eggs on her plate. Theo was bending over the balcony railings as far as he could go.

“Yes, I suppose I am ready. Goodbye, children.” Lysithea called. Neither responded.

“Have you heard from Claude by any chance?” Marianne asked. “Is he still in Almyra?”

“He should be crossing the border as we speak,” Lysithea said. “Of course, I was not invited to the greeting party. Lorenz and Hilda will be there.” During the war, Lysithea had originally sided with the Empire—or rather, Ordelia had sided with the Empire, and Lysithea worked to preserve her parent’s lives. For some reason, Claude had never quite warmed to her again after that.

 _It’s different with you_ , Leonie once told her bluntly after three mugs of ale. _Lorenz stood up against his father. No one knew where your loyalties were._

“Aunty Lysithea,” Anton asked, with something that sound suspiciously like sarcasm, “what exactly does the Spymaster do?”

“That is an excellent question,” Lysithea said. “So many people don’t take the time to learn. In the old days, before the Triumvirate, it would have been inter-Fodlanese intrigue, but there is no longer any need for that. Mostly, my job these days involves monitoring the various political sects that have popped up over the years and creating intelligence networks for the passage of information between the three nations.”

“So, instead of spying on governments, you spy on the people?” Anton asked. Marianne sucked in her breath, as though she had pricked her finger. Color flooded her cheeks.

“Um, Anton, why don’t you run ahead and make sure your father has everything he needs?” When they were alone, Marianne apologized profusely to Lysithea, bowing her head in apology.

“It’s the age, Marianne,” Lysithea said. “Cora gives me the same problems. And have you heard what Claude’s daughter gets up to? Three schools in two years!”

“I just don’t understand why Claude doesn’t send her to Garreg Mach,” Marianne said. “Of course, we sent Anton there, and that’s where all his problems began.”

“I’d send my children, but I don’t think Cora would do well without me. She needs firm guidance.”

“I am so sorry that you have to come deal with all this mess for us,” Marianne said. “I know you were coming here to enjoy yourself with your children.”

“Apologies, apologies, apologies. When will you learn, Marianne?”

People filled the war room. Some of these were colleagues Lysithea hadn’t seen since the war. How embarrassing that she had to remind herself of a few names. They all knew her though. The white hair was hard to forget.

“Spymaster,” Dimitri said as she entered.

“You really do not have to call me that.”

“You must have some intelligence on this matter.”

“I heard the news mid-travel, but I sent word back to Ordelia to bring full briefings. I can tell you what I know about previous claimed sightings.”

“Has your office been following reports of this for a while?” Felix asked. Freshly returned from Fraldarius, he still wore his riding gear from the journey.

“Not seriously,” Lysithea said, “but we would be remiss if we didn’t log these reports. Edelgardian movements make up some of the largest radical sects in the Triumvirate.”

“Tell us what you know.”

“There have been sightings since the end of the war,” Lysithea said. “Until about ten years ago, they exclusively came from Adrestia, and none of them were particularly credible. This was before my tenure as Spymaster. Since I have taken up the post five years ago, I have noticed that an association between regions associated with the Old Western Church and sightings. This means western Faerghus and northern Adrestia.”

“Were these sightings credible?” asked Ingrid.

“I suppose in hindsight,” Lysithea said. “But we never took them seriously. The so-called armies are likely local militia groups, and we honestly just assumed that the Edelgard sightings were part of her growing cult.”

“So this could be more religious in nature than political,” Sylvain said.

“Edelgard wanted to get rid of the church—” Ashe started.

“People don’t care what Edelgard wanted,” Sylvain said. “They care that she was a counterculture figure who stood against the institution of the Church of Seiros. Despite our best efforts, the central Church has only grown stronger in the past two decades.”

“In any case,” Annette said, “they seemed to be located in a certain region. Although they came as far as Castle Dominic.”

“We should send out a small regiment to scout them out,” Dimitri said.

“I should go,” Ashe said. Dedue broke his usual nonchalance to express a blink of surprise, but as usual, he said nothing. “I’ll say I’m visiting my siblings. It’ll look less suspicious.”

“I will need to stay here,” Dedue said. “To protect his majesty.”

“I’ll be fine alone. I’ll take a small battalion. We’re just scouting, right?” Ashe still had a way of sounding optimistic even when times were grim. “I may even be back before the celebrations.”

“Thank you, Ashe,” Dimitri said. 

“Dimitri, if you do not object,” Lysithea said. “I would like to install some of my people around Fhirdiad. I want to hear what is going on in the streets. It would be best too if we had people inside of the palace.”

“We have our own people for that,” Felix said. “I’m already taking care of it.”

“What affects you affects the whole Triumvirate,” Lysithea said. “My job is to make sure that information reaches everyone’s ears. In the interest of unity, please allow me this indulgence. You will have full access to all of my reports.” Felix appeared unconvinced. He crossed his arms and shifted his weight from side to side. “I am not acting as a member of the Leicester Alliance but as a member of the Triumvirate. Now is not the time for division.”

“Your agents are to report to me,” Felix said. “We have delicate systems in place already for dealing with the factions in this nation. We’ve already opened up an investigation into the association between Linhardt von Hevring and these crest annihilation theories--”

“You’re investigating Linhardt von Hevring?” Lysithea’s voice turned to ice.

“He was a strong ally of Edelgard’s and an idol of the Edelgardians,” Felix explained. Lysithea rolled her jaw. Displeasure clouded her face.

“Lysithea, I am very sorry, but I must ask,” Dimitri said. Something had occurred to him, and it began to gnaw at him. “You were lovers with Linhardt von Hevring, were you not?”

Lysithea brimmed with anger. “I am not going down this line of questioning again. I had nothing to do with his disappearance.”

“Please, Lysithea, we suspect there may be a connection between him and Edelgard,” Sylvain said. “As spymaster, you must have some intelligence of him.”

“He’s probably dead,” Lysithea said. “The church fanatics probably killed him. They never liked his research. And that’s all I know. Ask Ferdinand von Aegir. He’s the one who’s been hounding after him all these years.” Ferdinand had also been hounding Lysithea since she came out of retirement. The Adrestians were even more stubborn than those from Faerghus when it came to intelligence work, and Ferdinand couldn’t just leave such things in her hands.

“But his research on removing crests…he was doing that for you, wasn’t he?” Ingrid asked.

“It was a failure,” Lysithea said, “and as it turned out, I didn’t need it anyways.”

"Don't be so defensive," Felix said. "You disappeared for over a decade. You can't blame us for being suspicious."

"Disappeared?" Lysithea scoffed. Her voice heated with anger. "I retired. I married and raised a family."

“You’re not going to let your personal history interfere with your job, are you?” Felix said. “Because we need to tie up these loose ends once and for all.”

Lysithea straightened. She forced a compliant smile. “I will be nothing but professional. But I will not tolerate accusations against my character. I have gone through it too many times already.”

As she left to write her letters to Ordelia, Lysithea noticed that Anton was watching her strangely. He had not said a word through the entire proceedings, but he had scribbled a page of illegible notes during their argument. Lysithea suddenly had a bad feeling about it all.

 _It’s just his age,_ she reminded herself. 

* * *

Felix had worn the mantle of Duke Fraldarius for over two decades, but he never seemed to get used to it. The responsibility didn’t bother him so much as the pretension of the role. He certainly never felt like the Shield of Faerghus; he was more like a sword—sharp, quick, and best used for offense. At heart, he was just another soldier again, more interested in honing his skills than acquiring clout.

Perhaps that was why he was so good at his job. He cared nothing for the ostentation of court, and he made decisions based on what was best, not on how it would affect his reputation or standing. At the same time, he disliked having to work on the defensive. Planning for a potential attack was not as natural as just cutting down his enemies. Not to mention, it annoyed him that every constable and night watchman thought it prudent to report when the wind so much as blew in the wrong direction.

“What am I looking at?” Felix asked. He stood in the crypt of a decrepit church in the poorer district of town. A dead body lay supine on a block of stone. It was a woman with steel-gray hair. Her face had turned waxy gray and her lips blue. Judging by the cut on her throat, she had bled to death.

“She was murdered, sir, last night,” the constable said.

“And how is this relevant to the current threat?”

The constable coughed nervously. “Well, I was told you were searching for a man named Linhardt von Hevring.”

Felix frowned. Of all the things he had expected the constable to say, he did not expect that. The old man handed him a small notebook. Felix flipped it open. His jaw clenched as he read through it. 

He didn’t have time for this. There were too many other things to deal with. He had to track seditious character, chase up rumors, plug holes in the walls, and secure the perimeters of the city. But this…this was compelling evidence, and he was loathe to let it slip through his fingers. 

Perhaps there was someone else who might be able to handle this.

* * *

Several days later, Ferdinand arrived in Fhirdiad. He had barely set foot in his chambers before Felix found him. They had no relationship beyond the professional, despite having known each other for thirty years. Bernadetta was the only Black Eagle who hadn’t pledged a lifelong hatred of Ferdinand, but she ignored him all the same. They sent each other baskets of fruit for Saint Seiros day, but that was the extent of their friendship.

Felix seemed to follow his wife’s example. He spared no niceties in greeting Ferdinand. 

“I need you,” he said bluntly.

“Well, greetings to you as well, Felix,” Ferdinand said. A yawn was coming on. He had ridden the entire way from Enbarr himself. The exercise was freeing, but now he was properly exhausted.

“This is urgent. Are you still investigating the disappearance of Linhardt von Hevring?”

“Not at present,” Ferdinand said. “Although it has piqued my interest again recent—”

“I have a man waiting for you who may have information that you need,” Felix said. Ferdinand suddenly woke up.

“Pardon me, but what are you saying?”

“Look, we have reasons to believe that Linhardt might be involved with the reappearance of Edelgard,” Felix said. “And now there is suspicious activity in the Waterside district of Fhirdiad. Dimitri wants you to look into it immediately.”

Ferdinand crossed his arms. There was nothing incorrect about what Felix said, but the manner of saying it rubbed Ferdinand the wrong way. He was the Prime Minister of Adrestia, not another lapdog of Dimitri. The Covenant of Fodlan had expressly ensured that Adrestia would never be subjugated to either Faerghus or Leicester because of the war, but it felt as though Dimitri sometimes forgot that.

Felix grabbed Ferdinand before he could protest.

“Come with me, you have to speak to this man.”

“Excuse me, but could you at least manage a please.”

Felix let him go, but instead of being polite, he merely rolled his eyes. “We don’t have much time left before the celebration. Now, let’s go.”

Ferdinand followed him to a small alcove in the garden. A nervous looking constable clutched waited in the shadow of the gazebo. Judging by the wide eye glances around at the fountains, he had never stepped in so grand a place before.

“Are you the man that I am requested to speak with?” Ferdinand asked.

“Aye, sir, you can call me Ehrlich,” he said. “I work for the Chief Prosecutor.”

“Duke Fraldarius said that you had some information that would prove useful to an investigation I am conducting.”

“You’re looking into Linhardt von Hevring’s disappearance, aren’t you?” asked Ehrlich.

Ferdinand nodded. “Do you know anything?”

The man was an older constable, the type that in Faerghus they called coppers. He nodded shyly. Ferdinand invited him to sit down.

“I’ve got a real situation down in the docks,” he said. “A real puzzler, and I am not so sure I could solve it on my own. When I gave the papers up the docket to the chief prosecutor, well, next thing I know, Lord Fraldarius has his hands on it, and now I’m speaking to you.”

He set an old notebook, warped by the damp sea air, in front of Ferdinand.

“We had a murder, a week ago,” he said. “Real powerful lady in down in the docks, but not a real angel, if you get my drift. She smuggled bootleg liquor and was arrested more than once for sedition. Was real interested in crest annihilation theories.”

“Go on,” Ferdinand said.

“Well, this woman gets murdered, and it’s a real sight, let me tell you. Folks down in the Waterside—they get knifed all the time, but this looked too neat. Too professional. Never heard of an assassin going after a lowlife gangster, so we poked around a bit. And we found that.”

Ferdinand picked up the book. Upon opening it, he saw someone had written: _Clues to the Location of Linhardt von Hevring._

So he wasn’t the only one searching for him. He knew that Linhardt’s research had made him a favorite amongst a particular sect of conspiracy theorists, but Ferdinand hardly trusted the people who would take stock in such garbage.

Ferdinand perused through the notes. His eyes caught a number of familiar details. Whoever this person was, they had meticulously tracked down every iota of information presently known about Linhardt von Hevring. And it was all—to Ferdinand’s knowledge—credible. But there was very little new to Ferdinand. 

“Who was this woman again?” he asked.

“Her name was Liesl Prentice. She ran a tavern down in Waterside called the Scrub. I can take you down there if you think there’s something to it.”

“I believe very strongly there is something to this,” he said. Something had caught his eye—a piece of information previously unknown to him. “She mentions this man over and over again. Do you know who Gebhardt Breslin is?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A murder, some radicals, and some Golden Deer drama. Next chapter we'll finally see what the rest of the Golden Deer are up to and maybe get a few hints about what happened to Edelgard. In the meantime, thank you all for the kind kudos and comments! They really make my day, and I'd love to hear more about what you think. :)


	3. Romance of the World's Perdition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claude returns from Almyra and faces new accusations about his relationship with Byleth. Ferdinand investigates the murder of Liesl Prentice and, in turn, discovers something that he hadn't anticipated. Ignatz and Flayn receive a guest.

At the clasp of Fodlan’s locket, overlooking the craggy sprawl of the Throat, General Holst Goneril stood at command. Riding over the lone road through the mountains barreled a garrison of horses, wyverns darkening the sky above them. The banners told him it was a Royal Procession.

Next to him, Hilda draped over the railing of the balcony.

“Are they ever going to get here?” she asked, twisting a strand of hair. Finally, she yawned. “I’m tired. Just tell me when Claude gets here.”

“It’s an important formality,” Lorenz said. “The Almyrans wish to ensure that their king is properly received, and we wish to portray that we have the proper…fealty.” As much as Lorenz enjoyed making grand shows of his noble behavior, bowing to Claude was not necessarily his favorite manifestation.

Leonie was sitting up on the railing as well, scraping her sword’s blade on a honing stone. “I’m with Hilda on this one. I have other things I could be doing right now.”

“Wait,” Holst said. “They’re almost here.”

The horses had reached the walls of the Locket. Holst barked for them to open the gates. The cavalry spilled into the bailey. It was an important display of martial power. The Leicester Alliance and Almyra might share a sovereign and a treaty, but they were not one nation. Almyra needed to remind the Triumvirate that they still bore substantial military power. This was the same reason why Holst had filled his towers with archers and his courtyards with men in gleaming plate.

One day, Claude would no longer be king or Duke. On that day, who knew what would happen between Almyra and Fodlan?

Claude’s white wyvern descended on the bailey, its elongated wingspan blocking out the sun. Spray as an adolescent, he slid from the saddle of the great beast. Hilda could barely contain herself.

“Claude!” she squealed. Holst grabbed the back of her blouse before she could run off to her best friend.

“Manners, Hilda,” Lorenz chided. 

Claude enjoyed the spectacle of the reception. He came open-armed to Holst, and the two men bowed and saluted in respect. Lorenz passed a respectable bow himself. Hilda, now free of Holst, threw her arms around Claude’s neck.

“You have no idea how happy I am to see you.”

Leonie, too, was not much for pageantry.

“Claude, have you heard the news out of Faerghus?” she asked.

“Sheesh, give me a moment, guys,” Claude said. “Let me relax before you assault me with news of undead classmates.”

“So you have heard,” Leonie said. “What are we going to do about it?”

Claude slung an arm around Leonie and Hilda. “We are going to go have a drink and not worry about it just yet.”

Inside the fortress of the Locket, Claude poured aniseed liquor for his old friends. The milky liquid slid down easily and delivered a swift punch moments later. Leonie and Hilda could knock back several shots of it with ease, but Lorenz sipped at it politely.

“You aren’t taking this seriously, Claude,” Holst said. His arms were crossed and his liquor, untouched.

“You’re being rude, Holst. Drink!” Hilda said, in the same tone that her brother had always used to scold her.

“It is not that I am not taking it seriously,” Claude said. “It’s just that I do not think this is nearly as world ending a threat as everyone is making it seem.”

“That is the definition of not taking it seriously,” Lorenz said.

Claude swirled the drink in his cup. “Are we all in the camp that believes this is really Edelgard?”

“Even if it is an imposter, there’s an army camped out in western Faerghus that is gaining the support of radical factions,” Holst said. “The last intelligence states that they are targeting the anniversary celebrations.”

“Correct, and that is the worrisome part,” Claude said. “Not all this Edelgard business. The real question is: what is this army, and where did they come from? To field such a large regiment without anyone noticing—that’s the suspicious part.”

“You know who we could really use right about now?” Hilda said. “I’ll spell it out for you. B-Y-L-E-T-H.”

“Well, wouldn’t that be nice?” Claude said grimly.

“She promised she would return for the anniversary,” Leonie said.

“I don’t think she’s coming back this time, guys,” Claude said. Such conversations always invited back the grief of losing her. He tried to drown his sudden sorrow in his cup, but his friends would not leave well enough alone. 

“Do you know something, Claude?” Lorenz asked. “You two always had a particularly _intimate_ relationship.”

Claude grimaced. “Which is why when she left, it struck me particularly hard.”

“You really don’t know where she went?” Leonie asked.

“I really don’t,” Claude said. How many times would he have to reiterate the same point again and again? It was almost embarrassing at this point.

“What if she’s in trouble?” Leonie asked. “What if we need to rescue her!”

“Or,” Lorenz interjected, “perchance she has fallen into a deep slumber again.”

“I doubt she’s just sleeping this time,” Claude said with exasperation. “Whether we want to admit it or not, Byleth left on purpose. We have to trust that she knew what she was doing.”

“So what is your scheme then, Claude?” Hilda asked.

“Simple. We are going to bring extra troops to Fhirdiad. We’re going to lend financial and military support to Dimitri. And we are going to wait to see who this ‘Edelgard’ is before we start to panic.” Hilda’s face fell in disappointment. Even Leonie seemed unconvinced that Claude was not about to pull out one of his famous ploys.

“And if it is Edelgard?” Leonie asked.

“We beat her once, didn’t we?”

“I wish I had your optimism, Claude,” Lorenz said. “I admit, I find myself quite hesitant to agree to send my children up to Fhirdiad when there is such a threat present. The heirs of over half the noble houses in Fodlan will be in Fhirdiad at this occasion. Edelgard did desire the collapse of the nobility.”

Claude had to admit the idea made him nervous too. He had been looking forward to this event for months. His daughter, Amina, would leave school in Gloucester, and he had promised her some quality father-daughter time in Fhirdiad. She was reaching a difficult age, one where she needed her father more than ever.

“Well, I can say one thing,” Claude said. “For better or for worse, this reunion will be more memorable than our last one.” 

* * *

The Scrub was precisely the sort of establishment that Ferdinand would expect a conspiratorial gin smuggler to operate. Its brine-weathered roof sunk halfway to collapse, and sailors in tar-slick waders played dice and bones on the deck. They scattered when they saw the leonine sigil of Faerghus ride forward.

Ferdinand felt uneasy as he dismounted. Rickety wooden shacks interspersed low rows of ramshackle houses. The manufactories to the west blew huge plumes of smoke over the docks, embittering the air with a pitchy odor.

Inside was worse. The constables had emptied the bar, yet the smell of tobacco and urine clung to the place. Instead of tables, overturned barrels littered the place. Over the bar, a series of rusty daggers protruded in some sort of sick ornament.

“I don’t understand why we’re here,” Lysithea said. She was gathering up her skirts, trying to avoid them snagging on the nails sticking through the floorboards.

“That Liesl woman has credible information on Linhardt,” Felix said. “Ferdinand seems to believe so at least.”

Ferdinand wanted to remind Felix that he had been the one to flag Liesl’s murder, but in a magnanimous decision, he dropped it. It wasn’t worth pursuing. Felix had more of an edge than ever.

“Miss Prentice’s office was back here,” Ehrlich said. Ferdinand crunched over a trail of broken glass and down a set of stairs, where Liesl had been found dead.

“The office” was more of a cellar room, with a round table for gaming. At the back, there was a desk. Dried blood stained the surface dark.

“How did she perish?” Ferdinand asked.

“Her neck was cut,” Ehrlich said. “But everyone in the bar was poisoned first. We think they brought in a tainted keg, and once everyone was passed out, the assassin slipped in, did the deed, and went out again.”

“There are many turf wars in this area,” Felix said. “I’m not sure we want to waste much time on finding the culprit. I’m more interested in what other information she has about these crest conspiracies.”

Ehlrich ran a hand along the empty shelves behind her desk. “Whoever did it cleared her out. We only found that one notebook because it had fallen behind the cabinet.”

“So whoever came was trying to destroy the information that Liesl had,” Felix said.

Lysithea closed her eyes. She looked as if she was about to fall asleep standing. Ferdinand wanted to remind her to take it seriously, but she then said, “I can sense magic here. It is fading, but it is still present.” She extended her hand to feel the magical remnants in the air. She followed the trail to the other end of the room, where she suddenly crouched and clenched a fist of ashes.

“The papers were burned,” Lysithea said. “Using magic.”

“Did any parchment perchance survive?” Ferdinand asked.

Lysithea shook her head. “This is a high-level spell. I would say at least _bolganone_. They didn’t want anything to survive.”

“So there were mages involved,” Felix said. “Isn’t that just fucking great. That means we’re dealing with more than just gangsters. If the crest anihilists can use that kind of magic, our enemies may have already penetrated the city.”

“We ought to do an entire sweep of the Waterside District,” Lysithea said. “I agree with Felix. I couldn’t care less about finding Linhardt but this is evidence of a growing revolt.”

Ferdinand opened the desk drawers. They were empty. He peeked under the desk. It smelt like death. He ran his hands around the bookcase. Everything had been taken and burned.

Ehrlich was speaking to a young uniformed man who had suddenly appeared. He waved Ferdinand over.

“Lord Aegir,” he called, “the young man you requested to speak to has been apprehended. We can only hold him until sunset without cause.”

Felix and Lysithea had begun an intense argument about the jurisdiction of the surveillance issue. This would be a good time to leave, Ferdinand decided. Unlike them, he wasn’t really certain that there was a simmering threat in Waterside. He was still more interested in finding Linhardt, and he doubted he would discover anything here anyways.

As they left, Ferdinand asked Ehrlich, “Do you think I could get a sample of the poison used?”

“If you wish, sir,” Ehrlich chatted as they walked the streets towards the constabulary. “You know much about poisons?”

“I had an old friend who taught me a thing or two.”

The constabulary was adjoined to the dockmaster’s office. It smelled just as rank as the rest of the district, and barely had enough room for its own guardsmen. The constables showed Ferdinand to a dank cellar where they kept the cells.

“We have them both in custody,” said a man who appeared too young for all the scars on his face.

“Both? I am only looking for Gebhardt Breslin,” he said.

“Ah, well, sir, we just assumed that if you wanted Geb, you probably wanted Danny as well. Whatever trouble they’re in, they’re usually in it together.”

Ferdinand was about to remark on this when he stopped short. There _were_ two men in the cell. One was an unfamiliar, gangly, ruffian sort, and the other…

“Oh, hello there…”

Anton Blaiddyd’s eyes went wide. “Oh, hi,” Anton said dully.

“Do you know this man, Danny?” said the one who must have been Geb.

“No, not at all.”

“That’s not quite true, is it, _Daniel_?” Ferdinand said.

“Lord Aegir, would you like us to take them upstairs so that you can question them?” Ehrlich asked.

“Lord Aegir? As in Ferdinand von Aegir? Danny, how do you know Ferdinand von Aegir?”

“My dad knows him.”

Geb clutched his hair. “How does your dad know Ferdinand von Aegir?”

Anton chose to swivel. “This is an unlawful detainment, I’ll have you know, Aegir. I will be submitting a formal complaint—”

“With your father? Please do. I encourage it, in fact. I anticipate the reaction on his face when you reveal where it was you were incarcerated.” Anton paled. The wind had dropped from his sails.

“I’m lost,” Geb said. “Is this about me or Danny? Because I promised my cousin I’d …"

“Take Geb upstairs,” Ferdinand said. As the constables tugged Geb away, Ferdinand cornered Anton in the cell. “What sort of tomfoolery is this?”

“It’s nothing,” Anton said. “What do I have to do to convince you not to tell my father?”

“How do you know this man?” Ferdinand asked.

“He’s a drinking buddy. Look, it’s not important. What do you want him for anyways?”

“Liesl Prentice is dead and—”

“Yeah, she was _obsessed_ with him. But you don’t think Geb has anything to do with it, right? Because word on the street says its Marco Waltzer, who’s this huge—"

“I have no interest in who murdered Liesl Prentice,” Ferdinand admitted. “I am investigating a man named Linhardt von Hevring—”

“Oh man, you’re into that Hevring stuff too?”

 _What did that mean?_ Perhaps this warranted a more thorough interrogation than Ferdinand originally needed.

“I must question your friend. I will iterate that he is not in trouble, but he may have information useful to keeping the peace of the Triumvirate. If you could convince him to cooperate, perhaps I might be convinced not to reveal your transgressions to your father.”

“Ugh, fine.”

Ferdinand grabbed his arm. “Very well! Now come along.”

They had shoved Geb into a small, windowless room lit with candles that strained Ferdinand’s eyes. He sat down across from Geb.

“Mind if I smoke?” Geb asked.

“Very much so,” Ferdinand said. Geb sighed. “I take it from your accent that you are Adrestian.”

“Ooh, wow, real sleuth aren’t you?” Geb said. “I take it from your accent that you are a noble bastard who betrayed his country to keep his rank.” Ferdinand ignored the jab. Such insults were practically cliché these days. 

“Where were you born?”

“In a tiny little place called Kinloch in the Rhodos Coast.”

“That is in Faerghus. I thought you were Adrestian.”

“My dad is,” Geb said. “We moved back to Adrestia when I was sixteen.”

“Where to?”

“Rusalka.”

It had been a long time since Ferdinand had met anyone from Rusalka. The province was the poorest and least populated in Adrestia.

“What was the cause of your removal?”

“Oh, you know. Age old story. Mom died. Dad had a nervous breakdown. We had to move in with my aunt and uncle.” 

“I am looking into the death of one Liesl Prentice. Do you know her?”

“Everyone knows Liesl,” Geb said. “I’m going to guess that your next question will be if she had any enemies, and I can say she had _loads_.”

“You either worked for Liesl or you hated her,” Anton affirmed.

“Liesl wrote in her papers about a Gebhardt Breslin. I assume that is you,” Ferdinand said. “Particularly, she seems to believe that you have some connection to an Imperial scientist named Linhardt von Hevring.”

Geb grew agitated. “Liesl got some real strange thoughts into her head, ok? A real conspiracy nut, you know?”

“I do not know,” Ferdinand said. “Please enlighten me.”

Geb’s face twisted in unease, and he wriggled in his seat. “From what I understand, this Hevring guy was some Edelgardian scientist looking into how to remove crests, right? The story goes right that he was trying to find a way to save his love, but then his love betrayed the Empire, and the research was disrupted because he was thrown into jail after the war for heretical research.”

“And then he disappeared,” Ferdinand said.

“Well, here is where it gets crazy, and I swear to the goddess, this is what she actually believed,” Geb said. “You know how it was rumored that those Agarthan armies could clone people or take their likeness?”

It wasn’t a rumor, but Ferdinand let him go on.

“Well, Liesl thinks I’m a clone of Linhardt von Hevring.”

Anton burst into raucous laughter. “Of course she fucking does.” Anton was wheezing for breath. “I mean, did…I mean…Goddess, that woman was nuts.”

Ferdinand frowned. Geb did have a certain resemblance to Linhardt. He was thin and gawky, with a similar coloring—blue eyes and dark green hair. But there were other parts that weren’t quite Linhardt either; he was a bit taller, his face small and round instead of Linhardt’s long and angular, his eyes pert and awake. He talked a mile a minute, unlike Linhardt’s yawning patter.

A bubble of frustration swelled in Ferdinand’s gut. That couldn’t be it. Liesl was his first real clue to Linhardt’s whereabouts in decades. She couldn’t just be another garden-variety imbecile. But even Anton seemed so insistent that the woman was simply insane.

He would have to consult the notes again. There had to be something there.

“I knew Linhardt von Hevring,” Ferdinand said. “I must say, you could pass as a convincing double.”

“Look, Liesl had three bits of information on me that supposedly proved this theory,” Geb said. “You’re going laugh when you hear them. One, I have the same color hair. Two, I have a similar name. And three, I’m from Adrestia. With that sort of specious evidence, you would think she’d also be interrogating old Mr. Bernhardt at the butcher’s. But that’s all she had on me.”

Ferdinand thought back to the cleaned room. Other information had been scrubbed. All that was left was this one notebook that had been found pushed behind a desk and even that didn’t tell him much about Geb. Felix was right; Liesl was probably killed by a rival who was getting rid of information that had nothing to do with incriminating Geb. The Geb stuff was incomplete because it wasn’t important.

But looking at Geb, he couldn’t help but think that perhaps Geb was somehow related to Linhardt. Perhaps it was the power of suggestion, but the more Ferdinand studied him, the more he was convinced that there a resemblance—more than just the hair.

“Tell me about your family Mr. Breslin,” Ferdinand said. “What do they do in Rusalka?”

“Oh, you know, mope around. Get in arguments about pointless shit. Write passive aggressive letters to other family members.”

“I meant professionally, Mr. Breslin.”

Geb rolled his eyes. “We grow apples.” His sardonic levity was beginning to thin. 

“Are you taking this lightly?”

“Look, I don’t how to prove to you that I don’t have any connection to this Linhardt guy,” Geb said. “Short of bringing my dad up here, but he won’t come because Faerghus has too many bad memories for him or some dumb stuff like that.”

“I assume if your family owns land, then you’ll have records in the land registries,” Ferdinand said. He said it to see if the information would make Geb flinch. If Geb had some sort of secret identity, perhaps it would have made him edgy.

“Yeah, there you go,” Geb said. “Check those.”

The conversation was beginning to frustrate him. This was going nowhere. The door opened. It wasn’t Ehrlich but Lysithea.

“There you are,” she said coolly. “Would you support me if I pull rank on Felix for this intelligence issue. I swear no one ever trusts me. What do I have to do to earn the respect of my seniority in the intelligence network?”

Geb’s eyes had gone cool and cloudy. He leaned forward the desk like a cat stretching its back. “Well, well, well,” he said. “If it isn’t Lysithea von Ordelia.”

Lysithea glanced over at him. “Do I know you?” she asked coldly. It made Geb laugh for some reason.

“No, but you should,” he said. He added in a whisper, “And you will.”

“Is that a threat?”

“Let him go, Lysithea. Gebhardt, you are free. For now.”

Geb bowed dramatically at Lysithea as he backed out of the room. Anton had picked up an old broadside to cover his face, and it seemed to work because Lysithea was still complaining about Felix’s lack of respect. Ferdinand turned Lysithea out of the room. He wasn’t sure how to approach the Anton issue, but for the boy’s sake, he didn’t want a scandal quite yet.

“What were you doing in there anyways?”

“Just another deadend on the Linhardt case,” he said. “I fear you may be correct on this matter. I am not certain anyone could find Linhardt at this rate.” Lysithea sighed, partly out of relief.

“I will concede that investigating that murder was probably for the best,” Lysithea said. “You may be right that these crest anihilists are idolizing Linhardt but moreso, they are infesting this area of the city. That Liesl woman was an intense Edelgardian. We can’t seem to find any of her cronies, though, and Felix refuses to grant the right to detain any citizens, which is my prerogative as Spymaster. I am not some low ranking crony, Ferdinand. I am a representative of the Triumvirate.”

Ferdinand stopped listening about halfway through her rant. He saw Geb again, signing papers for release. A very frustrated looking woman was next to him, questioning about why he got arrested. She was young and very tall, and the sight of her made Ferdinand’s stomach drop. Geb whispered something in her ear, and she turned towards Ferdinand, bright green eyes full of curiosity and anger. When Ferdinand caught her gaze, she quickly ducked away, pretending as though she hadn’t just been gawping at him. 

“Well, you certainly don’t seem to care,” Lysithea said. “I can’t wait for Claude to get here. He’ll listen to me.” She left him abruptly, and Ferdinand didn’t notice because he was still staring at this young woman.

“Is she gone?” Anton poked his head out from the room. “Did she notice me?”

“Anton—”

“Daniel.”

“Daniel, who is that woman speaking to Gebhardt?” Ferdinand asked.

“That’s Selma, Geb’s cousin. Why?”

Ferdinand decided that he would continue investigating the Gebhardt angle.

* * *

Paint gleamed fresh on the canvas. Ignatz wiped off his brush and admired it. Yes, that was the final touch. It would take several days for the paint to dry, and until then, Ignatz had to resist the urge to muss with it. This perhaps was one of his proudest yet: the Harrowing of Saint Cethleann.

Ignatz worried that the advocates of the New Church of Seiros wouldn’t enjoy it. After all, Cethleann was supposed to be a figure of modesty and calm inspiration. There were no stories of Cethleann delving into the dark nethers of the world and emptying the bowels of the earth of its demons—not in the official stories after all. The new Church ilk were sticklers for the book of Seiros. More and more, they disapproved of gaudy reinterpretations of old legends.

Flayn would like it though.

As Ignatz began to clean his brushes, an insistent knocking came at the door.

“One minute,” he called. The knocking continued, faster, louder.

Ignatz went to the door of his studio and opened it. A shadow loomed over him, and he felt a fear he hadn’t since his days at Garreg Mach.

“Where is she?” Seteth asked.

Twenty-five years and Seteth hadn’t aged a day. Time had caught him in stasis—the same haircut, the same style of attire, the same withering, cross-armed glare that made Ignatz dissolve into a puddle.

“Hello, Seteth,” Ignatz stuttered. “What a surprise.”

“Where is she?” Seteth pushed his way past Ignatz into the studio. His eye caught Ignatz’s painting. The evidence that he was seeking was there, painted into the face of Cethleann herself. “You’ve made quite a name for yourself, Victor.”

“Yes, sir,” Ignatz gulped.

“Father?” Flayn waddled down the stairs from their apartment above Ignatz’s studio. “Father, what are you doing here?”

“I am answering your letter,” Seteth said tersely.

“You could have written us first!” Flayn asked.

“Flayn, let us cease with the argument,” Seteth said. “For the sake of the child.”

Flayn was quite heavy with child by now. Yet it didn’t seem to mitigate the full fury that she brought her to discussion with her father.

“Father, I am an adult, and I shall be a mother soon,” Flayn said. “You must cease this fretting over me!” The small woman seemed to grow to twice her height, even as Ignatz was shrinking down to half his.

“Perhaps when you have your own child, Flayn, you will understand that I cannot do that,” Seteth said. “You disappear. You avoid me for years, and then you write to tell me that you are with child? I have missed your wedding!”

“It wasn’t much of a wedding, Father,” Flayn said. “We went to Sreng for a few years. And it just…happened.”

“At least you are married,” Seteth said. “I was worried that…” He seemed to remember Ignatz now.

Once, on a blustery winter’s day, decades ago, Ignatz had kissed Flayn behind the stables at Garreg Mach. He had spent the next twenty-five years hoping Seteth wouldn’t notice. The gig was probably up now, right? Then again, the child would probably look more like Flayn anyways. There was still time to deflect.

“You are looking well for your age, Ignatz,” Seteth said, with a hint of suspicion. Ignatz did look perhaps a bit younger than most men his age. Some made the comment that he had barely aged at all. But it was for the best because Flayn looked young too. She had cut her hair and donned clothing appropriate for an older woman, but most people still guessed that she was only in her twenties.

“I did tell you about the pregnancy,” Flayn said. “All I desired was a few years on my own without you breathing down my neck. I needed to become my own person, Father.”

“Well, you certainly have succeeded.” Seteth sighed and rubbed his temples. “Let us stop bickering. I have brought gifts.”

The gifts included several handwritten notebooks of stories for the young child, which Ignatz offered to illustrate—something that seemed to appease Seteth momentarily. Seteth then made a full round around the studio, pointing out all the different ways that the impending babe might perish within its walls. He proceeded upstairs, where he did the same thing with their residence. He and Flayn then argued about whether the child would call him Uncle or Grandfather.

Ignatz quickly realized that the worst Seteth would do was ignore him. This revelation made him relax quite a bit, although he tensed up every time Seteth so much as looked in his direction.

“You look tired, Flayn,” Seteth said at long last. “You should rest. You must not overexert yourself at this stage.”

“Father—”

“Ignatz, I wish to speak to you outside.”

All the alarm that had slowly seeped away now returned in full force.

“With me?” he stammered.

Seteth merely gestured, and Ignatz dutifully followed him outside. Why was he scared? What could Seteth do? It wasn’t as if he would force him to clean the stables or to prostrate before the altar overnight.

Ignatz and Flayn lived in the rolling countryside that bordered Derdriu. There were no other houses around for miles, although they could see the glittering ocean and the white tile houses of Derdriu from their hill.

“I suppose Flayn has revealed to you certain particulars about our family,” Seteth said.

“Yes, sir. I know her true identity. And yours.”

“Would that mean that she has also shared with you the particular nature of your child?”

“What do you mean?”

“Human and Nabataeans have mated before, but very few children of these relationships survived the Tragedy of the Red Canyon,” Seteth said. “Historically, bearing the blood and crest of their Nabataean parent, they proved to be an attractive target for the Agarthans.”

“But the Agarthans are gone now.”

“But there are others who wish to propagate their old ways,” Seteth said. “There is no telling what this child might come out as. They may be more Nabataean or Human. They may have their mother’s crest, no crest, or a completely new crest. But they may very well be in danger should the wrong find out that they exist. That goes for any children that you and Flayn have together.”

“Do you really think that we’ll be in danger?”

“I am going to share a story with you that the Church no longer tells,” Seteth said. “Due to your part in the war, you understand that the Agarthans lusted after the power of Sothis and sought to claim the powers of the Nabataeans for themselves.” Ignatz nodded. “Do you know what specifically triggered the war?”

Ignatz hadn’t thought about it. He knew that the Agarthans had killed several of Sothis’ children and repurposed their blood and bones for powerful weapons and crests. He knew that the Agarthans possessed powerful technology, some of which they stole from the Nabataeans. But he never thought about the war itself.

“It was because of one such Human-Nabataean child,” Seteth said. “This child bore a crest that the Agarthans feared. It was the Crest of Storms.”

Ignatz had never heard of this crest.

“The Agarthans had their own religion, and in it, it spoke of a world-ending event wherein a so-called ‘False God’ would drown the world,” Seteth said. “The child was indeed very powerful, and the Agarthans rushed to create their terrible weapons to destroy this crest.”

“Was it true?” Ignatz said. “Is there really a crest that can drown the world?”

Seteth clenched his hands so tightly that the knuckles went white. “There were incidents. Some regions that flooded. Places that disappeared. But nothing so destructive as the pillars of light that turned Ailell to fire. Nothing like the genocide they committed on our people.”

“What should we do?”

“The New Church has made it clear that they do not require my guidance any further,” Seteth said. “Without an archbishop, I believe my tenure there is coming to a natural conclusion. I would like to join you and Flayn here. I think it would be best for me to assist with the child’s early years, and I want you to convince Flayn to agree.”

Ignatz realized now he was in a very tricky situation. Flayn loved her father, but her desire for independence outweighed her attachment to him. At the same time, Ignatz would be lying if he said that Seteth’s tale hadn’t scared him.

“Well, I’m sure we’d love your help in the first few months,” Ignatz said, “but I’d have to talk to Flayn about it.”

Seteth glanced up at the house. Ignatz followed it and saw Flayn watching him from the studio windows. He prayed that he said the right thing.

“And one more thing,” Seteth said. “I do not think it wise to attend the celebrations in Fhirdiad. There are many threats, and Flayn is already late in her pregnancy.”

“What sort of threats?” Ignatz asked.

Seteth sighed. “Let us go in. I suppose I ought to break the news to Flayn too.”

* * *

Claude was needed in Fhirdiad. That at least everyone could agree on. So he left the Almyran brigades under the charge of Holst and would fly ahead with the rest of the Golden Deer to Fhirdiad. Hilda was already whining about having to ride a horse instead of a carriage whereas Leonie was already packed, saddled, and ready to go. As Claude saddled his wyvern, another familiar face appeared.

“Hey, Hil, I brought you something for your journey.” The voice made Claude’s head turn. He saw Caspar von Bergliez handing Hilda a satchel.

“Hello, Caspar,” Claude said. “I was wondering if I would see you this time.”

Caspar had fought for Edelgard, and with his father being a prominent general in the Imperial Army, his situation had been precarious after the war. Unlike Linhardt, who had been accused of heresy, Caspar was merely an enemy of state, a status absolved when Edelgard finally defected to Byleth’s side. After the war, Holst Goneril had offered him a position in his border guard, and Caspar had taken the opportunity with glee. No one bothered him in Fodlan’s Throat.

Claude always liked Caspar. It was difficult to begrudge him as an enemy. He had a simple, well-meaning desire to do good in the world, even if he sometimes lacked the foresight to understand the best course of action.

“Hey, Claude,” Caspar said. “Sorry I didn’t greet ya yesterday. We think there’s someone running a smuggling route up on the north face of Shatter Bald.”

Hilda opened the satchel. “Caaaas! This is so sweet of you. I love pralines.”

“Well, it’s a long ride, and I don’t want you to get hungry. Oh, Hil, here, let me handle that.” He took the saddle from her hands. I’ll get this.” He began to saddle Hilda’s horse for her. Hilda came over to Claude and offered a praline.

“Sleeping with war criminals again, _Hil_?” Claude teased.

“He’s not a war criminal. He was pardoned,” Hilda said. “Besides, he’s very sweet, and he does things for me without me even asking. And he only fought for the Empire because of his family. That’s pretty noble, right?”

“Ah, is that what attracts you to him then? His nobility and filial piety?”

“Yes, he has very noble…abs. And very strong noble arms.” Claude laughed. Hilda swatted his arm. “Oh stop. You were sleeping with an archbishop, who was also your professor by the way!”

“Hey, hey, she was not an archbishop or my professor when we got together,” Claude said. “She was merely my military general who had a penchant for very _tight_ shorts.” Hilda giggled, but then her expression drooped. 

“Do you really not know what happened to her?” Hilda asked.

“I wish I did,” Claude said. Sometimes, he had to remind himself that twenty years had passed. He had a daughter now. He was ruler of two nations. He couldn’t keep pining after Byleth. “You remember how optimistic we were at the end of the war? How we thought we could solve all the problems of Fodlan? And then it turned out that there were far more problems than we realized.”

“Give yourself more credit,” Hilda said. “You were the one who opened the borders, and look at the good we have because of it. More trade. Technology. Fewer border skirmishes.”

Caspar came over. “Hil, I think I hear Holst calling for you. I’ll finish up here for you.” Hilda kissed Caspar on the cheek and skipped away. That left Claude alone with Caspar.

“Caspar, you should really come out with us to Fhirdiad,” Claude said. “You fought against the Agarthans. You served your nation. You should be there.”

“I don’t know,” Caspar said. He smiled nervously and hugged his arms. “I just think it would be awkward.”

“Nonsense,” Claude said. “You have a right to be there, Caspar. I’m sure Ferdinand and Bernadetta would be happy to see you, and you always were good friends with Ashe. Remember that cat you two had back at Garreg Mach?”

“Eh…” Caspar said. “Right now doesn’t seem to the right moment. All this Edelgard stuff is putting people on edge, and someone has to watch the border while Holst is out—”

“Caspar—”

“Look, Dorothea already has people interrogating her, and Dimitri always kind of scared me anyways,” Caspar said. “I just think it’s best if I stayed here. You have to know what I mean Claude. I know it’s not your thing to take things really seriously, but you of all people should know that this could be the real thing.”

Claude hesitated. “Why me of all people?”

Caspar glanced around to see if anyone was listening, but Hilda was still out with Holst, and the guards had left on their patrol.

“Because you know as well as I do, Claude,” Caspar said. His voice dropped to a whisper. “that Byleth never executed Edelgard.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story has overtaken my Nanowrimo project. And my life. Get ready for some wholesome Raphael content in the next chapter. And some not so wholesome danger action for one of our characters. ;)


	4. Mages in the Mist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anton offers Ferdinand a helpful hand in the murder investigation, and Dimitri attempts to reconcile with his son. Claude's daughter meets a mysterious Almyran man. Ashe encounters an old enemy in Gaspard.

Ferdinand swirled the vial of poisoned ale in his hands. The amber liquid betrayed no sight of poison, but the stringent odor—too sharp for yeasty ale—made Ferdinand suspect tincture of Adrestian oleander: a powerful soporific that in high quantities could induce weeks-long comas or death. Since only Liesl died in the Scrub, Ferdinand suspected that the dosage had been purposely diluted, but it was still a significant clue.

Ferdinand had absorbed most of his poison knowledge from Hubert back in the day. Back then, it felt an awful lot like pestering Hubert whenever he was about to dispatch on a new intrigue. _What are you doing and exactly how do you plan on doing it,_ he would demand, and Hubert would respond in the driest terms of how he would enact his devious schemes. _A tincture of Adrestian Oleander, dispensed in an aqueous solution, will subdue the enemy._ Ever since Hubert was executed with Edelgard, Ferdinand had encountered few poisons, yet even after twenty-five years, he recalled those brief lessons with startling accuracy. 

Part of him wondered that if Edelgard survived, if Hubert lived. Another part questioned whether that was Dorothea's missing link. 

But that was just one of many questions that occupied Ferdinand's attention these days. On his desk, he had the land registries for the entire Rusalka region. His mind endlessly turned to connecting this strange Gebhardt figure with Liesl’s murder and Edelgard’s return, but as of yet, he did not have enough information. Perhaps this was a dead end, his rational side spoke, but his heart told him there was something more.

The problem was that Ferdinand didn’t know how to leave something well enough alone. He recalled the youthful attempt to impress Mercedes, where he had stolen her adoption records from her father, and she had to beg him to stop interfering. He had the same drive with this mission. Something was wrong, and he had to find out what so that he could fix it.

“What’s this?”

Ferdinand groaned as Anton Blaiddyd waltzed into his office. He glanced over the documents on the desk. “Spying on my friends are we?”

“I figured I ought to vet your acquaintances just in case.”

Anton shrugged. “I could have told you all this.”

“Yes, but how are you certain that they are telling the truth?”

Anton rolled his eyes. “You really disdain the lower classes, don’t you?”

“I do no such thing,” Ferdinand said. “But Liesl suspected Geb of some relation to Linhardt von Hevring, and now she is dead. I would be remiss in my duty if I did not investigate his origins. Now, do share: what is the purpose of this visit?”

“I wanted to ask if you would kindly stay out of the waterfront.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Yeah, I figured. So next question, let me help with the Liesl investigation.”

Ferdinand quirked an eyebrow. The first request he had expected; the second caught him by surprise.

“For what reason?”

“I have a life down there.” Ferdinand smirked. “Don’t laugh. I just want to make sure that you don’t encroach on my territory. Don’t ask the wrong type of questions or involve yourself with the wrong sort of people. Plus, now Fradlarius and Ordelia are sniffing around down there, and I would prefer if I had an excuse for why I’m there all the time.”

“You want to make sure that I don’t arrest your friends.”

“Please. You have nothing on them.” He held up both hands. “Look, this will be to both of our benefits. You’ll tell my father that I am spending my time engaged in a healthy and productive activity, and I’ll get you an interview with Liesl’s righthand man.”

“Ah, you are friends with him too?”

“No. I actually beat him within an inch of his life a while back, which means he’s just about ready to gather up all his buddies for a bit of pay back.” Ferdinand’s best scowl did not provoke a modicum of guilt on the young prince. “He’ll come to me. Trust me.”

“Only if you promise to take my investigation into the Breslin’s seriously.”

“I know more about the Breslins than anyone else,” Anton said. “And I know Waterside. No offense, but the Prime Minister of Adrestia isn’t going to get far there. Everyone already knows that officials from the Triumvirate have their hands on the Prentice case, and they’re all running to their little burrows until things cool down.” 

Ferdinand chewed it over. Anton did have a way into the Waterside community that he lacked. Finally, he stood up and collected all of his papers and dumped on the desk in front of Anton. “There are all my notes on the Linhardt case.”

Anton whistled at the size of it. “Can you sum it up for me?”

“Back when I was still serving Emperor Edelgard, Linhardt von Hevring was involved in research to learn how to remove crests. The Church considered this heretical research and wanted him punished.”

“Yeah, can’t remove the things that let the Church control us.”

“He was in captivity for a grand total of twenty months before he just disappeared,” Ferdinand said. “The only clue I have is that there was one occasion where the guards thought they heard him speaking to someone else. When they searched the premises, they discovered no other person or any trace that anyone had been there. Other than that, he was in total isolation.”

“Well in hindsight, it certainly seems like that wasn’t true.”

“Indeed. The primary suspect at the time was Lysithea von Ordelia. She was extremely ill during this period of time, however, and her doctors assert that she was completely bedridden in Ordelia territory, which is several week’s journey away, on the other side of Fodlan. Your mother and Lord Gloucester both vetted her.”

“All right, so she has a solid alibi.”

“Next likely subject was his best friend, Caspar von Bergliez, but he was impressed into the service of House Goneril after the war, and there’s no record of him ever leaving.”

“What of the other Black Eagles?”

“Petra was already in Brigid, and Dorothea, I kept close tabs on her.” Her words mocked him: _You’re missing a piece, Ferdie_. “They don’t have as much of a motive, as I understand it.”

“All right. Anyone else?”

“Well, when Linhardt escaped, the guards were put to sleep using a concoction that I have only seen on three other occasions. Once from the late Hubert von Vestra, who you may recall was Emperor Edelgard’s righthand man.”

“Oh, yeah, I’ve heard of him.” Anton shuddered at the memory. “Dad doesn’t seem to like him.”

“Another occasion, it was used by Claude von Riegan to subdue an Imperial squadron.”

“Wait…wait…listen to this: what if Duke Riegan helped Linhardt escape? Eh? Eh?”

Ferdinand ignored the jest. “And most recently, it was used to drug the companions of Liesl Prentice immediately prior to her murder.”

“Ah.” Anton’s glee broke. “I see the connection now.”

“That is all the information we currently possess,” Ferdinand continued. “Linhardt left no physical traces. Nothing suspicious moved or taken from the estate, except for some of his papers. He was just gone. We’ve contacted every municipality in Fodlan. Wherever he is, he must be operating under a pseudonym.” Anton had begun flipping through the papers. “I have considered the possibility that your friend Geb may be some sort of relation of his. Perhaps even his son.”

“Well, looking at your timeline, that seems a bit unlikely,” Anton said.

“Why?”

“According to this, Linhardt disappeared during Great Tree moon twenty-tree years ago. Geb’s 23rd birthday was last month. So if you think about it, he was born, what, three months after Linhardt disappeared? It just doesn’t seem likely. Besides, you’re missing a crucial element.”

“Which is?”

“The fact that Liesl was clucking mad. Trust me, I have a lot of experience in dealing with insanity.”

“Read through my notes,” Ferdinand said. “I would appreciate a fresh set of eyes. And do not return until you can acquire that interview with your ‘friend.’”

Anton happily accepted the stack of papers. “As you wish.”

As Anton moved to leave, Ferdinand called out: “Anton, one more thing I have been curious about. What is your relationship exactly with Selma Breslin?”

“Now that is an excellent example of the type of question I don’t want you to ask.” Anton winked, and he was gone.

* * *

The warm yeasty smell of fresh baked rolls. Lamb stew swimming with fat and root vegetables. A jar of tomato jam tipped out on the bread plate. Pudding simmering on the stovetop, with the sharp aromas of ginger and molasses. As Raphael took it all in, his belly began to rumble.

“Now I don’t want to see you sneaking any bites,” Maya said, swiping his hand as he reached for the bread.

“Aw, come on, Maya,” Raphael said. “I’ve been working all day.”

“These are for the guests,” Maya said.

“Yeah, but don’t I get a bonus as the innkeeper.”

Maya balled her fists on her hips. “Out!” she said, pointing with her spoon. Raphael made a dramatic sigh as he left the kitchen and walked out into the dining room of his inn. The rooms were flush with visitors, passing north to Derdriu for the celebrations. Pilgrims in white and green robes said their morning prayers out in the gardens.

“Raphael!” The groundskeeper marched up to him. He was dragging a young girl by the collar over to Raphael. “Your little ragamuffin friend is back seeking handouts.”

“I’m not a ragamuffin!” cried the girl. She tore away from and smoothed down the collar of her school dress. “I’m an old family friend.”

“Well, if it isn’t Amanda von Riegan,” Raphael said with a beaming smile. “Running away from school again?”

“I would prefer it if you used my real name, Amina,” she said. “I no longer go by Amanda.”

“Well, that sure doesn’t answer my question.”

Amina squared her shoulders. She looked devastatingly like Claude—hair a rich shade of caramel brown, eyes somewhere between blue and green, and an expression that spoke trouble.

“I cannot stand it there any longer,” Amina said.

“Uh huh. And what does your dad think of this?”

“He doesn’t think anything. He doesn’t know…yet.” Amina said. “Is that stew I smell?”

“Amina, you can’t just keep running away from your problems.”

“I’m not running away from my problems,” Amina said. “I’m solving them. That school is death incarnate. It’s suffocating the life out of me. I hate it here. I want to go back to Almyra.”

“Then why are you here?”

Amina hemmed nervously. “Because I’m hungry….and broke.” She grinned at Raphael.

Raphael maintained a calm smile. “Come with me, Mina. I think you and I need to talk over dinner.”

It was Amina’s presence that convinced Maya to let Raphael steal two bowls of stew and half a loaf of bread. Amina dove in like a rat in the rubbish bins.

“Amina, your dad is just trying to prepare you for your future role as the Duchess of Riegan,” Raphael said. “He only wants what’s best for you.”

“Yeah, don’t worry, I got the message loud and clear,” Amina said. “No one in Almyra wants me as Queen. Or as anything else.”

“Well, I admit, I know nothing about how the Almyrans pick their queens, but you should be excited and proud of your claim to House Riegan. They love your dad in these parts, and they’ll love you too.”

“Really? Because at school, no one seems to like me,” she said.

“Your dad had some problems making friends, but he always convinced them in the end.”

“Dad’s suggestion was that I smuggle in some alcohol and throw a party. Instead, the other girls reported me, and I got three weeks on scullery duty.”

“Well, kiddo, sounds like you had a rough go of it,” Raphael said. “I can’t pretend to understand what you’re going through, but I can tell you that you are always welcome here.”

“Thanks, Uncle Raphael,” Amina said.

“Why doesn’t your dad just send you to Garreg Mach? They’ve cleaned it up quite a bit since we knocked it all down during the war.”

“I don’t know,” Amina said. “He gets weird about it whenever someone suggests it.”

“What’s your plan now?”

Amina dragged her spoon in the stew. “Guess I’ll go meet Dad in Derdriu. The coach was supposed to meet me at school, but I think I missed out on that.”

“Couldn’t hold out a few more days until you could leave?”

Amina released a heavy, slow sigh. “I might have punched someone.”

Raphael chuckled. That was what Amina always appreciated about her Uncle Raphael. He never criticized or told her that her feelings were wrong or tried to convince her to take her father’s path to power. He listened and affirmed and occasionally dispensed wisdom.

“I see you took my suggestion then,” he said.

“She started it.”

“But you finished it?” Amina nodded. “That’s my girl!”

The door to the kitchen swung open. A young man staggered inside.

“Oi, Raph,” he said, “I cleaned the gutters off, but did you know that you have an old steel helmet up on the roof?”

“Ah! That’s where it got to!” Raphael boomed. “Hey, Hassan, come meet my good friend, Amina. I think I told you about her.”

The sight of the young man caused an instant visceral reaction. His complexion was a few shades darker than the local Fodlanese, and his hair was a dark blue that matched his eyes.

“You’re the Almyran friend, aren’t you?” Hassan said.

“You’re Almyran too,” Amina said, partly in shock. Even with the borders open, it was rare for her to see someone of Almyran heritage so deep into Fodlan. 

“Only half.”

“Hassan has been helping out around here for a little extra coin, isn’t that right?” Raphael said.

“Yeah, I’m headed up to Fhirdiad for the big jubilee,” Hassan said. “Figured I’d crash with some family up there, but I ran out of coin by the time I got to Gloucester. Can’t even catch a ride on a mail coach without selling your teeth these days.”

“I told him that if he did a few chores, he could join me when I went up.”

Amina regarded this man with some curiosity. She had never met someone like her before: part Almyran and part Fodlanese. Other than her father, of course, but he was old and didn’t really understand why it was so difficult for her to make friends when it had always been so easy for him.

“What part of Almyra is your family from?” she asked.

Hassan looked taken aback. He had clearly not expected the question. “Uh…oh, hold on, it’s uh…something with an S.”

“Simurgh?”

“That sounds as good as any answer,” Hassan said, with a nervous laugh. “Hey, Maya, if Raph gets to eat early, can I grab a bite too?” He set the rusted helm down on the table and stole himself a bowl of stew, avoiding Maya’s swatting arm as he did so.

Hassan settled in the table between her and Raphael. Amina wanted to ask him more questions, but he was avoiding eye contact. Hassan and Raphael chatted about a pilgrim who left a ring in the room and how long they had before it became theirs.

“So tell me about yourself, Hassan,” Amina said. “I’ve never met another person who was part-Almyran before.”

Once again, Hassan ducked at the topic of Almyra.

“Look,” he said, “I hate to disappoint, but I don’t really have much connection to Almyra. I was raised in the mountains by wolves, so I guess that makes me part wolf.” He thought this was clever, but Amina didn’t seem to get the joke. “Were you raised in Almyra?”

Amina nodded. “Yeah, but my Dad wants me educated here.”

“I’d love to see Almyra someday,” Hassan said. “Maybe you can teach me a few things.”

Raphael slapped the table with excitement. “I’ve got just the idea!” They both looked at him startled. “Amina, why don’t you come up to Fhirdiad with Hassan and me. Get you away from your dad for a while. We’ll go on the road, a real proper journey. It’ll be good for you.”

“What will you tell my dad?”

“I’ll tell your dad that you need a break,” Raphael said. “What is he going to do? Send the army after me?”

The idea did sound appealing. She didn’t really want to go to Derdriu and confront her father in the cold tile halls of the Floating Palace. If she was going to be the Sovereign Duchess, perhaps she ought to see Leicester for herself.

But that night, as Amina went to bed, she had a dream she hadn’t had in many years. Not since she was a child.

She dreamed of the river behind the Palace in Simurgh and of its sparkling currents smoothing over the pebbles. One moment, she was staring into its crystal depths. The next, the river rose up and swallowed her whole. The currents pulled her deep into its depths. No matter how much she struggled, she could not break away from its pull. The water distorted the screams of her nursemaids. Staring up at the water’s surface, she saw not the sunlight but a deep green glow.

* * *

For the time in weeks, Dimitri woke without a headache. The world felt clear around him, as though he had stepped out of a haze. As he rose from bed, he realized that Marianne’s side was empty. As his feet touched cold floors, he heard the chime of the clock strike eleven in the morning.

He had overslept.

Quickly, Dimitri dressed. He tried to find his way to the war room, but only Dedue was there. He was reading over troop accounts.

“Why did you let me oversleep?”

“Marianne and I agreed that it was best for you to get some rest. How are you feeling?”

“I do not have a headache today.”

“That is promising.”

“But we have much to do—”

“Your advisors are all handling matters,” Dedue said. “Please try to trust them. We need you to take care of your health, now more than ever.”

Dimitri slumped into a chair next to Dedue. Dedue was probably right. Dimitri did feel much better.

“Did Ashe leave already?”

“Yes,” Dedue said, with a slight strain of what Dimitri recognized as stress. “I worry for him. Western Faerghus has always been a difficult region.”

“You should have gone with him,” Dimitri said. “I understand that you always worry about me, but—”

“I am not certain my presence would help much,” Dedue said. “While Fhirdiad has become more accepting of the people of Duscur, I have never been welcomed in Gaspard. Besides, I have work to do here.”

“I keep thinking about Edelgard,” Dimitri said. “Her return makes me so angry I am blind, but at the same time, I do not wish to kill her.”

Dimitri had been the vote that damned Edelgard. Edelgard betrayed the Agarthans and gave the information to Byleth to find Those Who Slithered in the Dark, yet after Rhea and Seteth wanted her executed for crimes against the church. Dimitri had been deeply conflicted. Yet Rhea eventually persuaded him that Edelgard’s life would bring more chaos to Fodlan. She was the sacrificial scapegoat to ensure peace.

But damn if the guilt didn’t still ache.

“It is natural to feel such things,” Dedue said. “You were close to her once.”

“Were we?” Dimitri asked. “I think back on that year when we were childhood friends. She was my confidante, my sister, although I did not know it, but to her, it was as if I did not even exist. At school, she never wanted anything to do with me. Sometimes, I believe I dreamed up the whole year in another fit of madness.”

“Please do not worry yourself about the past,” Dedue said. “We must focus on the future.

There was a light rap on the door. Anton was standing there. “Hello Uncle Dedue,” he said. “Father, mother wishes to see you.”

“Is it urgent?”

“I think she wants you to try your suit for the anniversary ball.”

Dimitri stood. An idea struck—a conciliatory type of gesture, the kind of fatherly intervention that Anton usually shirked at.

“In a moment. Come with me, Anton. I wish you show you something.” Anton grimaced, but he did not voice his complaints. Dimitri led him back to the chambers of the royal residences to the room once occupied by Patricia Blaiddyd.

His father and step-mother had kept separate bedrooms—a royal tradition Dimitri and Marianne flouted. Now the room was unused—occasionally occupied over the years with dignitaries or guests of state but never for long. Dimitri pulled the sconce on the wall, and a painting swung open like a door. Inside was a small compartment with an old trunk. 

“What is this?” Anton asked.

“These belonged to my stepmother,” Dimitri said. “She was a political exile from the Empire.”

“Wasn’t she involved with the Tragedy of Duscur?” Anton spoke of it so flagrantly, despite the fact that it still caused Dimitri such pain.

“We believe so, yes,” Dimitri said. “As a child, I loved that woman like my mother, and when I found out about her role, I hated her as deeply as anyone could hate anything. And I hated her daughter, Edelgard. Had I found this trunk after the war, I think I might have destroyed it.”

Dimitri pulled the trunk out. Most of the items inside related to her time in the Empire. Dimitri realized why she had hidden these possessions; they were evidence of her previous life. Inside were two loose watercolor portraits.

“Do you know who this is?” Dimitri asked, handing Anton one of the portraits.

“No.”

“This was Edelgard von Hresvelg when she was a child.” Her hair was still brown. The artist had brightened her lavender eyes. One hand folded demurely over the other. This was the Edelgard that Dimitri wanted to remember. The stern, serious, often-bossy girl. The innocent, sweet child.

“Why are you showing this to me?” Anton asked.

Words were difficult things. It should have been easy for Dimitri to say, but it was like there was a hand squeezing down on his vocal cords. Innumerable feelings struggled for expression.

“Perhaps so that you would understand how difficult Edelgard’s return is for me,” Dimitri said. “Few realize this, but we were step-siblings. I loved her mother, and her mother killed my father. I loved my sister, and my sister sought to destroy me.”

“You sincerely believe that she has returned?”

“I sincerely believe that something bad is going to happen at the anniversary,” Dimitri said. “And I cannot shake the feeling that it will end in war.”

“Please do not get angry with me for saying this, Father,” Anton said. Dimitri braced. Such words usually preceded an argument. “But you suppose this is an impostor using her image so to attack you where you are weak.”

Dimitri bit his tongue. He was not weak. “You think they are trying to drive me mad again.”

“I think that they are trying to force your hand so that you make a mistake,” Anton said, “so they can convince the populace to take their side.”

“I will not falter,” Dimitri said, “if you are concerned that I will make a mistake—”

“You’re already making mistakes,” Anton said. “Sending your troops out into the Waterside district? That’s not going to convince people that you are a benevolent king protecting his people. You are only pushing them towards the Edelgardians.”

“So I ought to leave well enough alone and let them infest our city after threatening us?”

“Everything is war with you. It’s might. It’s force,” Anton said. “You’re not the social programs guy, I get that. You’re not Aegir with his free schools or Riegan and his open borders. But what they are doing right now? They’ve got Aegir hook, line, and sinker. Because of Edelgard, he’s chasing after a ghost like a man obsessed. And Riegan is probably fortifying his borders as we speak so that Leicester can jump ship and join some of their new friends abroad. These revolutionaries are sowing division, and they are waiting for you to break and do something dire so that they can portray you as a tyrant.”

“Even a good and gentle King must have a firm hand,” Dimitri said. “To not take these precautions would be madness.”

“Are you a good and gentle King? I don’t mean this as an affront father, but you must consider what the people think,” Anton said. “You can do all the good in the world, but if they see you as a martial warlord, they will not trust you.

“What do you think of me?” Dimitri asked. “Do you really think me a Mad King?”

“That is an unfair question, considering the fact that you lied to me for most of my life. Considering the fact that you continue to ask me to lie on your behalf.”

 _This again._ A thousand apologies would never heal this wound.

“Your mother and I were trying to protect you—”

“Well you did a bad job,” Anton said. “And you’re not the person who has to live with the burden of that lie. I am.”

“If people knew—”

“That’s exactly my point,” Anton said. “Reputation is important for sovereign rule, Father. No one wants a beast for a king.” 

* * *

Returning to Gaspard was always a difficult decision. After the war, Ashe was technically the only claimant remaining. Lonato had no living natural heirs, and Ashe as the eldest of his adopted children held the only claim. But Ashe never felt comfortable in Lonato’s seat. He never held pretensions of Lordship, and as a knight, he always felt his duty was better served as a knight to Dimitri’s service.

The old manor house where he had been raised by Lonato seemed woefully empty now. His sister had married, and his brother helped manage the regional affairs, but no one really lived in the house. Ashe liked to think that he was no longer afraid of ghosts, but he always felt a strange chill when he walked in the cold and dark hallways that had once been warmed by Lonato and Christopher’s presence.

At least he had his soldiers. Most of them expressed humility housing in the manor of a lord, but Ashe didn’t want to be alone. He knew it would have been too much to ask Dedue to come. Dimitri was the only family that Dedue really had left, and Edelgard’s return had not been handled well. Dedue would never ask Ashe to abandon his brother in need.

Dedue was not exactly a font of sentimentality, but Ashe could sense the quiet concern that simmered beneath the surface. He had packed Ashe a bag of mincemeat pies, cold pork skewers, pockets of rice wrapped in grape leaves, and even a jar of his famous Duscur stewed beans. It was more than enough to carry Ashe to Gaspard.

Now he sat in Lonato’s old bedroom, Ashe dug into his food—a small reminder of his home back in Fhirdiad. Below him he could hear the knights trampling and settling in. He had paid for them to split a barrel of local ale from the town, but Ashe was too distracted to partake in the revelries. So he ate cold beans from the jar with a spoon, looking out onto the ghostly woods that strung the edges of the manor.

A fog was beginning to roll in over the woods. Tomorrow Ashe would consult with the local magistrates about the movements of militia troops through the area. He would have to pay a visit to the churches to discover if any allegiances still existed with the old Western church.

The fog came in thicker. Waves of argentine mist swallowed up the trees. Ashe went to the window and opened it. The air felt unseasonably cold. Curls of fog lapped at the stone steps to the manor. A blip of darkness moved amongst the silver-bright mist—a person, a mask…a mage!

Something was wrong.

Ashe immediately scrambled for his bow and quiver, but as he turned from the window, every candle, every torch, every flame in Manor Gaspard extinguished, plunging Ashe into darkness. Only the moon faintly penetrated the room. The strange silver fog glowed with unnatural fluorescence.

Ashe groped his way to his bow and grabbed a handful of arrows. He returned to the window, leaning on its ledge as he nocked an arrow. Surveying the mist, he watched for another sign of a masked mage. 

Screams erupted from the knights downstairs. His heart nearly gave out. They were already inside!

The old house moaned with activity—creaks and thuds and slams. Footsteps plod up the stairs towards the master suite. He threw himself over the door and quickly turned the key. No sooner did he do this than the door shook in its hinges. A strange light illuminated the shape of the door. It flew from its hinges and barreled into Ashe.

Ashe blew backwards with the force. The impact crushed him against the bed, the door pinning him to the mattress. His ribs cracked under the weight. Every breath felt heavy now. Ashe groaned as he slid the heavy door off his torso. He had lost his arrows but not his bow.

A cloaked figure stepped inside. An orb of blue magic hovered in his hand. It took a moment for the mage to see Ashe, but that was all Ashe needed to grab his arrows. The mage was almost too close to hit, but Ashe let loose an arrow anyways. It grazed the mage’s shoulder, enough that the magical light flickered. Ashe tried to dart away in the darkness, but a whip of miasma caught him by the ankle and flipped him through the air yet again.

Ashe was thrown against the table. His brain knocked about in his skull so hard that it made him nauseous. He fought through the feeling. Lifting his head, he peered through the dark. Blood streamed from his nose and temple.

One of Ashe’s knights came charging into the room. He barreled towards the strange mage and stabbed them in the back. The relief was palpable for Ashe—at least until he noticed the gaping wound bleeding from the knight’s stomach. He collapsed to one knee.

“Get out of here, sir,” he panted. “There are too many of them.” The knight fell forward onto his face. A cacophony of fighting continued downstairs. Ashe debated what to do. It was dishonorable to leave his soldiers while he escaped, but he himself could not fight in this state.

The screams began to die below. One by one, they faded. These were not normal mages. Someone had to bring the message back. Dimitri needed to know.

Ashe blindly groped for his sword or his bow or even an arrow that he could stab through the gut. Instead, he found a shard of glass the size of his hand. It would have to work. He stood on his feet, vision still swimming.

The room had gone still. A bustle of activity continued below, but the fighting seemed to have ceased. Ashe would have to get out of here. He limped towards the only source of light—the moon through the window. He glanced down at the garden three floors down. He would have to jump.

Ashe landed on his feet, but he soon keeled forward on his knees. His ribs still ached. He had no time to lose. He staggered back to his feet and lurched towards the garden gate. His fingers idly fumbled with the latch. Out to the woods he limped, clutching his glass shard with one bloodied hand and his ribs with the other.

As a child, he had memorized these woods, but in the darkness, they seemed alien to him—a labyrinth of dark posts and snarling bushes. His feet stubbed every rock and root. He fell face first more than once. Somewhere safe—he just needed somewhere safe to pass the night, then he could crawl to the village and get help.

It did not take long for his attackers to follow the trail of glittering blood to the woods. Brush cracked and thundered as bodies pushed through the woods. Ashe slumped down against a rock and prayed to the goddess that they would not find him. Mystical lights elongated the shadows. The intruders enclosed upon him. Soon, he heard voices. 

“Did you find his body?” asked one of them.

“No. Search the woods until you get him. He can’t have gotten far.”

They would find him, bleeding out against this rock, unable to defend himself. Would this be his end? His breathing sounded harsh and grating in his own ears. He doubted he was even strong enough to stand on his own.

“What are we going to do. Pythia is getting anxious. If we lose our chance at getting this one, she will have our heads.”

“It does not matter anyways. I can still take his form easily if we don’t find him. If the real one appears, we’ll grab him then.”

“Trophonius, that’s a risky move. Pythia and Dodona will—”

“Pythia and Dodona aren’t here. Now continue searching the woods. I am going to start the transformation.”

“Are you certain?”

“Go now. Find him before daylight. We can’t have the villagers noticing.” One hunter trampled away distantly into the brush. The other approached closer and closer. Ashe tried to still his rattling breath.

 _I will steel myself_ , he thought, although his mind felt more like fuzz than steel. He clenched the glass shard so tightly that he could feel the blood seep through his fingers.

The orb of magical light came nearer. The shadows retreated back in a cast of blue. In the pitchy night, such light blinded him, and he could not see who was coming.

“What the in the abyss is that—”

Ashe heard a choking gasp followed by a sharp crunch and then a squish. Something hard and heavy struck the earth. The light evaporated in a second. In contrast, the darkness seemed even blacker.

Footsteps continued towards Ashe. His mind raced for answers. Gauntleted hands suddenly grabbed his shoulders and dragged him from out behind the rock. Ashe swung the glass shard at him, but the stranger wrestled it away as if it were a toy in a child’s hand. The stranger swung Ashe over his shoulder. Ashe leaned his head against the cold metal of the stranger’s armor. He was so tired now. His whole body ached.

Moonlight finally broke through the trees. Ashe was dimly aware of it as his vision flickered. The glow reflected against gleaming black plate. _A ghost indeed_ , Ashe thought as he drifted into oblivion. All he saw was a black skull crowned with horns.

_The Death Knight._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Swear that I've now introduced all of the major OCs and storylines. I double-pinky promise that these all intersect at a vital juncture in the story. Thanks to everyone for the kudos and the comments! I'd love to continue hearing your thoughts!


	5. Reunions and Disunions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claude finally arrives in Fhirdiad with his fellow Golden Deer, and while old friends catch up, Ferdinand seeks answers in Anton's mysterious friend, Selma. Ashe meanwhile learns the truth about his attack and must ally himself with an old enemy if he is ever going to make his way back to Fhirdiad alive.

Ashe’s letter arrived only a few days after his departure for Gaspard. It bore the seal of House Gaspard—more formality than he usually spent on his correspondences. The letter read that he had contacted a camp of an Edelgardian militia, and he hoped to return to Fhirdiad soon to share the news directly. 

“I am concerned,” Dedue said. “This does not look to be his handwriting.”

Dimitri read over the note. “Do you think it is a trap? Someone sending bad information?”

Dedue sighed. “I suppose we are being paranoid.”

“In any case, we will know when he returns,” Dimitri said. “Try not to worry, brother.”

A knock came at the door. “Your majesty, his royal highness and grace, the Sovereign Duke has arrived.”

Dimitri prayed that Claude had some information that could shine a light into the chaos that had erupted across his life. Dedue followed him down to the courtyard, where they found Claude swinging Marianne in a hug.

Dimitri hadn’t seen Leonie in years; the copper shine of her hair had faded to a dark titian sheen, and she sported a few more scars on her arms. Lorenz and Hilda were familiar faces at Triumvirate Round Circles. After his marriage to Mercedes, Lorenz was no stranger to Faerghus, although he increasingly remained in Gloucester during his wife’s visits north. Hilda was…Hilda. Some people never really changed.

“Hello Claude,” Dimitri said. Claude released Marianne and shook Dimitri’s hand firmly. “We are pleased that you are able to join us.”

“Hello Claude,” Dedue said. “Will your son be joining us?”

“Daughter,” Claude corrected. “She has decided to take the long route with her Uncle Raphael.”

“Oh! Raphael is coming!” Marianne said.

“Shoot,” Leonie said. “I still haven’t paid my tab with him.”

“And is Ignatz able to come?” Marianne asked.

“Unfortunately not,” Claude said. “But even missing one of our Golden Deer, I bet we could still take on the Blue Lions. How about it, old man? Another mock battle, just like in the old days?”

“Who are you calling an old man?” Dimitri said. “And as I recall, the only reason you won those mock battles was because you had Byleth fighting them for you. Had it been one-on-one, I would have surely bested you.”

“Ooh, is that a challenge I hear?” Claude said, flexing his arms. “How about a spar before the big banquet?”

“I do not believe that a fight between the King and Sovereign Duke is what this country needs in a time of such division,” Lorenz said.

“No, it should be between your kids,” Leonie said. “I’m putting my money on Amanda. Raphael’s been teaching her how to box.”

“Well, I’m afraid my son has taken to fighting on the street, so it may be even odds. We could even host it out at some wayward tavern.”

Claude laughed. “It is good to see you so well, Dimitri.”

“Admittedly, I haven’t been so well,” Dimitri said. The headaches still came back some days. Whole weekends had been swallowed up in darkness until Dimitri woke with hardly any memories of the days passing. “I presume that you are familiar with the anniversary threat.”

“I am,” Claude said. He handed off the reins of his wyvern to an attendant and peeled off his gloves. “Perhaps we ought to discuss this somewhere else.”

The old friends regrouped in the dining hall, where Dimitri called for some food to be brought to the hungry travelers. As the Golden Deer ate cold ham and bread, the other Blue Lions began to trickle in. Lysithea gave a heavy sigh of relief at seeing her friends gather. Cups of wine filled and emptied just as quickly.

No one was eager to discuss current events. Instead, they all caught up over the years. Titles and knighthoods and official positions were bandied about. Those with children listed names and ages. They reminisced about their teachers, and everyone puzzled over whatever happened to Cyril. When Dorothea and Caspar’s names were brought up, it only became slightly awkward, and Hilda was not afraid to reveal her rather intimate association with Caspar.

No one mentioned Edelgard. That was one reunion they all dreaded.

“How about a song, Annette?” Claude said, as light dwindled from the window. “It’s been forever since I’ve heard you sing.”

“Oh, please no,” Annette said. “I’m not really a performer and—”

“Oh, yes, Annie,” Mercedes chimed. “That would be wonderful!”

“Song, song!” Sylvain began pounding on the table.

“Don’t listen to them,” Ingrid said, trying to cover his mouth. “You do not have to do if you don’t want to.”

“No, I’ll do it. Just for you guys, all right? I’m not doing any public performances for the anniversary!”

Sylvain began to cheer loudly.

Annette tripped on the steps to the stage of the banquet hall. _A great start to an awkward encounter_ , she thought _._ Her eyes pressed to the back of the hall as she began to sing, so that she would not have to see her friends’ faces, as she began singing that old song again. 

_There was a star, brightest in the sky,  
where fire brings both shadow and light.  
With the wind from the east and from the north a beast,  
the fire brings both shadow and light.  
  
When the two-fruited tree shall bear another three  
When the rains come all through the night.  
Till the blood rush clear on the wintery sphere,  
The flood shall steal the light._

_And all the creatures, big and great and small,  
They’ll take to their halls of night,  
With the wind from the east and from the north a beast,  
The fire brings both shadow and light. _

The hall burst into boisterous cheers when she finished. Her cheeks were bright red with embarrassment, and she nearly tripped again leaving the stage. Her friends were generally smiling, however, and that made her feel good. Finally, something to distract them from this mess.

But as she saw Claude, her face fell. He was staring at her, his brow furrowed in thought. Annette knew it: he didn’t like the song. 

“Do you know what that song is about?” Claude asked Annette as she tried to return to her seat. She shook her head. “I’ve seen it only in texts, as a poem. It was supposed to have been written after Saint Seiros defeated Nemesis.

“Really? How so?”

“Well, I’ve only uncoded part of it,” Claude said. “But the star of course refers to the Blue Sea Star, where Sothis was said to fall. And I think the creatures were the Agarthans. But the version I read had another stanza, with a very interesting line. It said, ‘The pattern in the weave of time, it never wefts so neat. The pattern in the weave of time, it inevitably repeats.’”

“What does that mean?”

Claude shrugged. “I think it means that history repeats itself.”

“That certainly seems to be the case these days,” Leonie said next to Claude. “Annette, you saw her, right?”

Annette nodded, suddenly more shy than she had been singing. “Um, yeah, that was me.”

“Do share with us, Annette,” Lorenz said. “How was the former Emperor?”

“Uh, well, she looked the same as she always did,” Annette said. “I didn’t see her for long. She just gave me a message for Dimitri and sent me on my way.”

“Think carefully, Annette,” Lorenz said. “Train your mind and tell us every detail. The survival of Fodlan could depend on this.”

“Oh leave her alone,” Mercedes said firmly to her husband.

“Look, this is supposed to be a happy occasion,” Claude said. “Let’s not ruin the festivities.”

“How do you only ever think of partying in times like this,” Lorenz said.

“This isn’t the end of the world,” Claude said. “We’ll get through it. Trust me on that one.”

* * *

Ashe woke with the sun stinging in his eyes. His head felt as though someone had poured gravel into it. A half-formed moan gargled from his throat. “Water,” he gasped, but his throat felt too dry to shape the words properly. As he tried to move his body, every muscle spiked in pain.

“Oh, you are awake,” said a droning voice that Ashe had not heard since his days at Garreg Mach. It struck fear into his soul. A waterskin dropped on the earth next to him.

“Are you going to kill me?” Ashe croaked. He reached feebly for the skin. His fingers shook as he removed the cap and poured the water into his mouth. Sweet, sweet water. It felt like heavenly relief to his desert mouth.

“That would be hardly be sport,” Jeritza said. “You are a baby bird with a broken wing. I am hunting for rats.”

Ashe managed to prop himself up on one arm. “How long have I—”

“Any longer and I would have gotten bored of you,” Jeritza said.

“Where are we? I need to get back to Castle Gaspard.”

“They have already replaced you,” Jeritza said. “Show up now, and you’ll be doing them a favor. I’ll be very put out if I spent all that effort keeping you alive, only to let you kill yourself.”

“Why did you save me?”

“I hear there is a reunion planned in Fhirdiad.”

“Yes, and?”

“I’d like to go.”

Ashe began coughing violently on the water. He tried to stop. Last thing he needed was to offend Jeritza.

“You are headed there as well, are you not?” Jeritza said. “I assume that you would want to get there before your twin beats you.”

“Jeritza, listen to me. Those mages…they’re Agarthan, aren’t they?” Jeritza confirmed it with a slight hum. Ashe should have known. He should have known the second he saw the fog and the masks and the strange magic. “When you say they have replaced me, you mean they have made one of their puppets to look like me.”

“The likeness is very striking on this one,” Jeritza said. “It took all I could not to wring his neck right and there.”

Ashe’s legs wobbled as he tried to stand. Glancing down in the full sun of day, Ashe saw his injuries were worse than he previously realized. Blood had crusted his trousers to the wound on his leg. His torn shirt revealed a sprawling bruise of black and red fanning his ribcage. Various knicks and bruises dotted his arms. He could only imagine what his face looked like, but it felt like someone had rammed a stick in his eye.

“We should be going,” Jeritza said. “I wish to see my sister. Is she well?”

“Your sister…oh wait, Mercedes, that’s right,” Ashe said. They had camped next to a stream of water. As Ashe shuffled behind Jeritza, he recognized it as the very edges of the Gaspard wood. “She’s married now, you know, to Lorenz Gloucester. They have kids and everything.”

“I don’t like that man,” Jeritza said. He did not wear his helmet now, and his long blond hair streamed behind him, wild and free. In the brush, twigs snapped. Ashe spun around, expecting to see masked mages, but it was just a squirrel hopping through dry leaves.

“You’ll have to be faster than that,” Jeritza said. “If they find you, they will kill you.” As if Ashe wasn’t already aware of that. They had replaced him with a clone. The idea made Ashe’s skin crawl.

What was their purpose? Clearly this doppelganger was going to head towards Fhirdiad and use Ashe’s face to infiltrate the court. Ashe thought to the threat of the anniversary. Were the Agarthans involved with Edelgard, and if so, was this their ploy?

Ashe’s anxiety spiked. He had to get to back. Surely, Dedue would recognize a fake of him, right? Unless of course the clone was looking to get rid of Dimitri’s right-hand man. And what would happen if they didn’t notice the clone? What if Ashe appeared and they thought he was the fake one?

There were so many possibilities, that Ashe could not keep up with his own fears.

“I’ll need a weapon,” Ashe said. “A sword. A bow. Anything.”

“You can barely stand, baby bird. Let your wing heal before you fly.”

Ashe tried to pick up the pace. The more he moved, the easier it became, although he could not match Jertiza’s long strides.

“How are you still alive?”

“The same way that Edelgard is still alive,” Jeritza said. “I was spared.”

“And you’ve been hunting Agarthans all these years?”

Jeritza shrugged. “They are difficult quarry. Sometimes, you think you have run them to extinction, but then you’ll find their little white noses sniffing where they shouldn’t.”

“Wait, Jeritza, why haven’t you told anyone?”

“The snake may hunt the rat, but the lion hunts the snake,” Jeritza said. “I am both prey and predator. There are those who would wish me dead. My fellow hunters and I, we protect ourselves.”

“Do you know why they have returned now?”

“You ask too many questions,” Jeritza said. “It is beginning to grow tiresome.”

Ashe swallowed hard. Jeritza was a fickle creature, and the last thing Ashe wanted was to invoke the personality of the Death Knight. He remembered how frightened he had been of the Death Knight as a student at Garreg Mach. Now he was traveling with him all the way to Fhirdiad.

“I thought you usually rode a horse,” Ashe said. “I’m not sure I’ll be able to walk far.”

Jeritza stopped short. He turned around. Ashe flinched. Perhaps he shouldn’t have said anything. Jeritza grabbed him around the middle and heaved him up over his shoulder again. Jeritza’s shoulder pressed into Ashe’s rib wound.

“Wait, no, stop! That’s worse! Ah!” Jeritza dropped him. Ashe fell to the ground.

“Then don’t complain,” he said. “And hurry.”

It was going to be a long road back to Fhirdiad.

* * *

In the merchant districts of the city, the anniversary may as well have already started. Vendors, artisans, and street performers thronged the boulevards. Bright banners bearing the sigil of the New Church—the Crest of Flames—billowed from posts, and wreaths of ribbons in red, yellow, and blue adorned every door.

Anton had a way of moving in the crowds that almost made him invisible. Ferdinand nearly lost him several times, only for Anton to stop, huff, and wave him back over. Anton had insisted that Ferdinand dress down for the occasion. The course woven fabric of his shirt itched the back of Ferdinand's neck. For some reason, he was thinking of Dorothea again. She would probably taunt him about his too-soft skin. 

“There is she.” Anton gestured to where Selma Breslin was selling her painted canvases. This was the second look Ferdinand had at Selma, and he wasn’t certain what he was expecting. A pair of customers counted coins into her hand, and she laughed sociably as one of them spoke to her. “Promise me you won’t annoy her. Why are we even bothering again?”

“Just a few questions is all,” Ferdinand said. “Either this will clear my suspicions or it won’t.” As they approached the stand, Selma’s face lit up with a smile, and she waved to Anton. When she realized who was stepping up behind him, the smile dropped, as did the hand.

Anton wrapped her into a hug. “Just go along with it,” Ferdinand heard Anton whisper into her ear.

“Daniel, shall you commence with the introductions?” Ferdinand asked.

“Selma, this is—”

“Ferdinand von Aegir. I know. My cousin has informed of your judicious oversight into the Liesl case.” Selma’s words sprayed acid. “Are you here to interrogate me now, Lord Aegir? Because I assure you, I took the greatest pains to stay away from that woman.”

Already he could feel an icy tension wall itself up between Ferdinand and Selma. His eyes skimmed over the leaning stacks of canvases.

“Are you an artist, Ms. Breslin?”

“I like to think so.”

Ferdinand began flipping through the selection. Almost all of the paintings were landscapes—arboreal scenes of shrouded woodland, picturesque hills rolling in waves, sheep spackling autumnal vistas. All of the paintings exuded a sense of poverty—from the collapsing roofs of the farmhouses to patchwork dress of an itinerant farmhand.

“Rusalka?” he guessed.

“Very good,” Selma said. “Although Adrestian scenes don’t sell so well in Faerghus, so I usually tell people that they’re the Oghma mountains.”

“Did you go to school for your art?”

“No, sir. My mother taught me.”

“Is she an artist?”

“A hobbyist, mostly.”

The purpose of this dialogue was to encourage Selma to relax. Ferdinand could see still the muscles bunching under her shirt. Her shoulders pitched so high that they practically touched her ears.

“Excuse me for being blunt," she said, "but are you here to buy art or to interrogate me?”

Ferdinand sighed and dropped the canvas. “Actually, I was hoping for a second opinion on some matters in the Waterside,” Ferdinand said. “Daniel here has been most cooperative, but I would appreciate perhaps the perspective of someone who resides there.”

“Very well.” Selma crossed her arms and straightened her shoulders, which gave her an extra inch of height. “What do you want to know?”

“Which variety of crook in the Waterside would have employed mages?”

Selma’s face screwed in confusion. “Mages? No one. You need school for that. Proper book learning. You’re not getting that in one of the free schools.”

“I told him the same thing—”

“Daniel, remember what we said about _not interrupting_?” Anton grumbled something. Ferdinand moved on. “Are you positive about that? This is not merely a matter of murder but of national security. There are great concerns about the revolution brewing in the Waterside.”

Selma rolled her eyes. “Oh no, the horror,” she deadpanned. Ferdinand realized too late that she probably bore sympathies with these rebels. Ferdinand made a mental note to chastise Anton yet again for his choice of company, although he doubted that his words would have any effect on the young prince. 

Anton coughed violently. “Ehm, uh, yes, Lord Aegir. If I could intervene here.” He slung an arm around Selma and tugged her to the side. He had the finesse of Sylvain in this moment and the charm of Claude von Riegan. “Look, the other authorities are chomping at the bit to raid Waterside and empty it out. Ferdinand doesn’t really care about revolutionaries—”

“I beg your pardon!”

Anton ignored him, continuing to speak sweetly into Selma’s ear. “He is just looking for this Linhardt guy, and if we can figure out what Liesl knew, we can take some of the heat off from the docks.”

Selma chewed at her lip. “I don’t know anything about this.” She spoke with a soft lilt that almost sounded affected. Ferdinand did not believe her.

“Come on, Sellie,” Anton pressed. “There has to be something.”

Selma’s eyes darted up to Ferdinand cautiously. “The only person I know dealing with mages in the Waterside,” Selma said, “was Liesl herself. She knew a lot about crests, and I don’t think that she came by that information honestly.”

Ferdinand digested this piece of information. Something was off about Selma. He could not help but feel as though she were deliberately dropping breadcrumbs for him to sniff at. Anton seemed to buy into it completely, leaning into her shoulder with the affectation of a lover.

“So perhaps Liesl got involved with the wrong sort,” Anton suggested. “And these mages sought to kill her. Seems pretty straightforward.”

“Not quite,” Ferdinand said. “The other missing element. The poison. If she were in league with mages, why would they need to use poison to gain access?”

“Come on,” Anton groaned. “What would she know about that?”

Ferdinand continued: “A soporific capable of knocking out an entire tavern of people. Has that ever occurred before in the Waterside district?”

Selma shook her head. “A sopor—what?” Now she was definitely playing coy. “Not that I know of. But I’ve only been here eight months myself.” Her fingers knit together. “Look, everyone in Waterside says Marco Waltzer killed her.”

“I understand that,” Ferdinand said. “But it was your cousin’s name that we found in her papers. Attaching him specifically to another missing person of interest.”

“Yes, yes, this Hevring gentleman.” Selma’s eyes rolled again. By the end of this conversation, they would be stuck in the back of her head permanently.

“Have you ever been to Hevring yourself, Ms. Breslin?”

“No.” It wasn’t Selma who answered. Ferdinand turned to see Geb behind him, stinking up the air with another one of those foul cigarillos. Under his arm, he carried a stack of letters. “Are you finishing reaching for the absurd, von Aegir? I must speak with my cousin about some urgent matters.”

“And what matters might those be?” Ferdinand asked. He could hear the desperation in his own voice. Perhaps Geb was right. This was a reach.

“Family business. You understand.” Geb reached his arm across Ferdinand to hand Selma a letter. “Hassan has run away again.”

Selma read the first line aloud. “’Where is my son?’” She laughed. "Oh this starts well.”

“Ah, Gebhardt, since you are here, perhaps you can assist—”

“Oh please go away,” Geb said, tearing at his hair. “You know what really gets my goat, von Aegir? If you are so desperate to find this Hevring man, why bother with me? Wouldn’t you want to chase after Ordelia instead?”

Of everything that Ferdinand expected Geb to say, that wasn’t one of them. “Are you trying to insinuate that Lysithea ran off with Linhardt? Because you would not be the first, and she has been exonerated every time.”

“You realize she’s a liar, right?” 

“I suppose this has something to do with her position of Spymaster,” Ferdinand said.

“It has nothing to do with that." Geb took a long drag on his cigarillo. Beneath his long eyelashes, his eyes darted back and forth--deep in thought, Ferdinand realized. Suddenly, he spoke again. “Aegir, on second thought, you and I should be friends." _Oh no, where was this going?_ "Look, I have a proposition. Investigate my mother’s death. If you do that, I will tell you what I know about Linhardt von Hevring, including the real reason why Liesl was so interested in me.”

"Your mother's death?"

"Yeah, her name was Elisabeth Breslin. She died on the tenth of Harpstring Moon, seven years ago. Dad and I always suspected murder, but the magistrate was too much of a wimp to do anything about it." 

Ferdinand's brow knit in confusion. What did that have to do with anything?

“Forgive me for being blunt, but how can I trust you?” Ferdinand said. “You have insisted that you know nothing about the case, and now I am supposed to believe that you have information that I want?”

"All right, all right: I’ll give you a little tidbit for free. Ordelia disappeared from public service, what, twenty-two years ago? Got married, had kids, but no one ever saw her because she gave up her title and disappeared? Start with the husband that has no one has ever heard of and no one has ever met.”

“I have already investigated that angle,” Ferdinand said sharply. “And how in the world did you arrive at such information?”

“I’m a damn good investigative reporter, and Ordelia is my favorite subject,” Geb said. “Hopefully that proves that I’m a credible authority.”

“You obviously bear some grudge against Lysithea, and I cannot trust that these ‘clues’ are so well-intentioned. Besides, I am a servant of the Empire, and I have greater matters to attend to than a death seven years ago in rural Faerghus.”

“Too bad. Those are my terms. You want information about Liesl and her search for Linhardt. I want my mother’s murderer strung up on the gallows like a summer ham. It’s a mutually satisfactory agreement.”

Ferdinand bit back a groan of frustration. How in the world would he be able to comply with a request like that? He was better off questioning random people on the streets of Waterside to find out what happened to Liesl. But perhaps that was why Geb asked for it—he knew that Ferdinand would never acquiesce. Not now. Not when the whole nation was watching him chase after the specter of Edelgard von Hresvelg. Geb studied him carefully through the smoke of his cigarillo, waiting for him to make the next move. 

“I ought to give my farewell,” Ferdinand said. “Before I do, may I purchase this fine piece, Ms. Breslin?” Selma glanced down at the piece he had chosen. It depicted an old manor house on a hill overlooking an orchard of straggling trees. Winter had stripped the leaves bare. A single light burned in an arched window overlooking a widow’s walk.

“Oh, that one is not very good at all,” Selma said. “Allow me to choose a better one—“

“No,” Ferdinand said. “I quite like this one. How much?” Selma told him the price, and he foisted twice the coin on her despite her protests. Heaving the canvas under one arm, he yanked Anton by the collar. The young man barely shouted his goodbye through the crowd before they disappeared.

Geb sat down on Selma’s stool. His cigarillo had smoked down to the nub. “So what do you think of Aegir?”

“Exactly what I expected.” Selma rolled her shoulders to loosen the tension. She slipped the gold coins into the lockbox. “So what is going on with Hassan?”

“He apparently slipped off without telling his mother where he was going,” Geb said. “She thinks he’s coming here.”

“Why?”

“Because where else would he go?”

“This could be good,” Selma said. “We could use the help.”

Geb responded with a grunt. He began to flip through Selma’s canvases. “You use too much shadow in your work. Do people really like this dark stuff?”

“It’s my style.”

“Some of your lines are a little sloppy. Is that your style too?”

Selma crossed. “You’re just like your father, you know that?” Geb scowled, as though she had insulted him. “What’s with the mood?”

“I’m _stressed_ , Sellie,” Geb said. “After what happened last time our dearly beloved cousin visited—”

“That wasn’t his fault.”

“But it still happened,” Geb said. “And we can’t afford any more mistakes or any more attention. I must say, I really don’t like how the heat has shifted from Liesl obsessing over me to Ferdinand von Aegir.” Geb gestured back to the crowd where Ferdinand had left.

“They have nothing on you,” Selma said. “He’ll lose interest soon, unless you do something stupid.” Selma rubbed her hands together. A chill raised the hairs on her neck. “Besides, what were you doing telling him about your mother?”

“Offering him a carrot,” Geb said. “Something to lure him away from us. Besides, if he did look into mumma’s death…well, who knows what he might find?” 

She grabbed him so he couldn’t leave. “You better not be doing anything dumb. I promised your father I’d return you alive.”

“Well, that was an incredibly dumb thing to do.”

“We’re walking a tightrope here, Geb,” Selma said. “Don't forget that.” She glanced down at the letter in her hands. “And what are you going to tell our aunt?”

“Uh…that her son gaining independence isn’t the end of the world?” Geb wrestled away from Selma’s grasp. “And in the meantime, would you mind distracting Danny for me? He’s getting a little too involved for comfort.”

“I warned you about making friends.”

“Yeah, yeah, would hate to have a normal life,” Geb said. “Plus, it’s not like you like him or anything, right Sellie? You looked rather cozy there with his arm around you.”

Selma crossed her arms. Her gaze dropped to her feet. “Trust only the family, isn’t that what we were always told?”

“Family’s all we got, and they took mine from me.” Geb’s eyes grew heavy with shadow. “I will avenge my mother, Selma. That rat Ordelia will pay for what she’s wrought.”

“Just don’t get yourself killed while you’re doing it,” Selma said. “I would hate to break a promise.”

* * *

Several villages ringed the countryside around Fhirdiad. The villages that faced out to the west usually grew out of the road that bisected the Tailtean Plains and trailed all the way down to Arianrhod. If Edelgard was bringing an army, this would be the way that she would come.

Yet the urgency of the situation seemed to be lost on Sylvain.

“Gosh, this reminds me of the time we were on air patrol back at Garreg Mach, and you took me up that secret roof on the cathedral. Do you remember that, Ing?” Sylvain grinned like an idiot and waggled his eyebrows at her. After all these years, he still had a way of making her blush at inopportune times. Fortunately, dusk had fallen and concealed Ingrid’s embarrassment.

“This is not a date, Sylvain,” Ingrid said. “We have work to do.”

“Ooh, a date. When was the last time we went on one of those?” He appeared dashing in his Gautier armor, a sword locked to his waist and his helmet dangling from his fingertips. “What do you say? How about we catch some bad guys, station some troops, and then go make out in that alley back there?”

“I will remind you that you are only here on my request,” Ingrid said. “You are not technically a knight anymore, _Margrave_. You’ll have to stay on task if you want to be invited back. But…” Ingrid bit her lip, “If we get this done and finish early, I’m sure we could probably get some dinner and perhaps a room at that inn back there.”

Now Sylvain was grinning so widely that his teeth flashed. Nights away from their brood were rare indeed and growing rarer with the encroaching date of the anniversary. “Yes, ma’am, Dame Ingrid.”

They had reached the end of the street, where a garrison of Fhirdiad elite had fanned out building fortifications. Villagers from a nearby pub watched the construction while drinking flagons of cider. Ingrid could hear their hushed whispers of doom.

“What do you suppose the locals know of this?” Ingrid asked him.

“We’re not far enough west to be in rebel country,” Sylvain said. “I’m sure they know as little as the rest of us.”

“Dame Ingrid, Lord Gautier,” greeted one of the soldiers with a bow. “We are pleased you have arrived.” They exchanged pleasantries, but business quickly overtook the conversation. 

“How many people have come through since you set up the check point?” Ingrid asked.

“At least a thousand,” the knight said. “We’re expecting at least another five thousand before the start of the festivities.”

Before the threat of Edelgard, they had expected Fhirdiad’s population to swell by at least half. The rampant rumors had tamped down on those expectations somewhat, but there were still floods of people surging into the city. Ingrid was beginning to think that Dimitri had the right idea by suggesting that they cancel the festivities or at very least shut off Fhirdiad. But the size of the revelries had already spiraled out of control.

“Anyone suspicious?” Sylvain asked.

“Some folks with outstanding bounties, but nothing serious,” the knight said.

“Can we see your ledgers?” he asked. “I assume you’ve been tracking names.”

This was the utility in having Sylvain join her. His work at the Sreng border had taught him how to manage checkpoints and study travel documents. Hard as it was to believe, Sylvain could be serious when he put his mind to it.

Besides, it was a nice excuse to get away with her husband.

As the knight called for the ledgers, Ingrid quizzed the guards about the fortifications being built along the roads. She wondered how these temporary wooden structures would stand against Edelgard’s supposed army. Then again, they had no intelligence on the army, other than Annette’s initial reaction and the questionable rumors traveling on the roads.

“Sylvain! Ingrid!” called a familiar voice. Both Gautier heads shot in the direction of the voice.

“Ashe, you’re back already,” Ingrid said. “That was…fast.”

Ashe smiled. “I left my garrison behind and rode ahead as fast as I could.” Of the battalion that he had taken with him to Gaspard, only two knights returned with him. Their faces were hidden under their helmets, and Ingrid couldn’t help but notice a dark stain on one of their jerkins. “I figured Dimitri might want to hear my report. How has he been?”

“Oh you know him,” Sylvain said. “He teeters between fervent obsession and quiet despair.”

“I didn’t realize there were so many checkpoints on the road already,” Ashe said. “I am glad. We must be prepared.”

“Did you find the Edelgardian army?” Ingrid asked.

Ashe nodded. “It is larger than we thought. But I believe there may be hope for us. Perhaps we ought to head back to Fhirdiad immediately. It is getting dark, so we should hurry—”

“Uh, Ingrid and I have…business to conclude here,” Sylvain said. He would be damned if he lost his one night alone with his wife.

“Oh, well, in that case, perhaps I will stay and help,” Ashe said. “I would hate for you two to fall into any sort of danger while you are all the way out here.”

“Actually, I think you were right to ride back to Fhirdiad immediately,” Ingrid said. “We’ll stay here and finish up. We should be back tomorrow. There’s no need for worry.”

“Ah, perhaps I should leave my knights with you then,” Ashe said. “For safety’s sake.”

“Ashe, please,” Ingrid said. “We will be fine. Worry about yourself. There’s only one of you and two of us.”

“You’re right,” Ashe said. “I apologize for being so pushy. I’m just on edge with all of this Edelgard business.”

“What exactly happened out there, Ashe?” Sylvain asked. Sylvain was skilled at masking his anxieties, but even his smooth exterior was beginning to crack.

Ashe glanced around. “Are you sure you don’t want to grab dinner at least?” The Gautiers could not say no to that, but Sylvain’s face did fall at the idea of sharing Ingrid that evening. They went to the inn, where the proprietor managed to give them a private table back in the kitchen.

“Edelgard does not wish to invade on the anniversary.” Ashe was tearing his bread into pieces without eating it. “She isn’t threatening war but a meeting between and the rulers of the Triumvirate. She has discovered something extraordinary and wishes to discuss matters with Claude, Dimitri, and Ferdinand.”

“Yeah, and she’s going to use ten thousand soldiers to do it,” Sylvain said. He draped one arm around Ingrid securely. He glanced over at the knights that Ashe had brought with him. “You guys want to eat with us?” They did not respond or even reach for the food.

“Don’t worry about them,” Ashe said. “They’re working now.” Sylvain couldn’t even see their eyes through the slits of their helmets. Something unsettled him about it. “Anyways, according to Edelgard’s representatives, she only wishes to have a seat at the table for the anniversary so that she might negotiate with Dimitri and Claude.”

“Negotiate about what?” Ingrid asked. “If Dimitri and Claude are smart, they won’t agree. It’s taken over two decades to stabilize Adrestia. Allowing Edelgard to reenter the picture now would just plunge it back into chaos.”

“I don’t buy it,” Sylvain said. “She lied to us all through the academy too. We thought we were friends with her then, and look what happened. They want us to let their army into the city, and this is their clever ploy to do it.”

Ashe shrugged. “I am only the messenger. I should really only be discussing this with Dimitri anyways.”

“There is something really off about this whole thing,” Sylvain said. “I mean, it just seems so impossible that Edelgard was alive all these years and just pops up now? Something else is going on here.”

“We’ll have plenty of time to discuss this back in Fhirdiad,” Ingrid said. “Let’s change the subject. How are you, Ashe? Did you manage to see your siblings back in Gaspard?”

“My…siblings? Oh! Oh no,” he said. “Everything moved so quickly. I was eager to return here.” They passed the rest of the meal in stilted conversation.

Usually, it was so easy to talk to Ashe. Ingrid would often bring up knightly business or a recent book that she had enjoyed. Sylvain might tease him about his training or his valiant virtues. This time. Ashe seemed uneasy, and he ducked their questions about Edelgard. Similarly, he refused to talk about Gaspard, instead persisting with questions about security in Fhirdiad.

When the dinner ended, they were all relieved. Ashe departed with his silent knights, and the Gautiers returned to the checkpoint.

“That was odd, wasn’t it?” Ingrid said. “Why do you think he was so insistent on trying to stay with us?”

“Something bad must have happened out there,” Sylvain said. “Ingrid, you don’t think we should send the kids back to Gautier, do you? They were so excited for the celebration but—”

“For now, they are safest with us,” Ingrid said. Knots twisted in her belly. So much for their night away. Now she was eager to return to the city. “The best thing we can do is get our work done and make sure that we protect the city as best as we can.”

“You know, Ing, for once, I think have to agree,” Sylvain said. “Then again,” he said, a little spark growing in his eye, “we should make sure of this time together while we have it, eh?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so I'm definitely not a songwriter. But I love Annette and Claude's supports, so this was my whack at a new one haha. 
> 
> Also, I desperately want Ingrid to have fulfilled her dreams of becoming a knight, so I made her a Dame instead of a Countess.


	6. Honor Within Hearsay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something is amiss in Fhiridad. Felix and Bernadetta reunite, and Theo von Ordelia reveals some troubling rumors. Ferdinand von Aegir finally receives his audience with Liesl's righthand man, but the information leads him down a frightening new trail. Who is Hassan, and why was Liesl so afraid of him?

Felix waited outside the gates of Castle Blaiddyd, anxiously watching for a carriage to wind down the road. He was unused to this. Usually, it was Bernie flinging herself out the doors of Fraldarius Manor when he returned from his visits to the capital. He always knew she was watching for him from her tower, and the second his horse peeked above the hill, she would scamper down to meet him. Now, he was waiting for her to join him.

When the carriage finally arrived, Bernadetta responded as enthusiastically as ever, launching herself from the step and swinging her arms around his neck. Felix often had to travel between Fhirdiad and Fraldarius, but it was never being away from home that got him as much as being away from his wife. It was a strange sensation when he saw her again, almost like he was returning home.

“I have missed you so much,” she murmured into his coat. 

“It has only been a few weeks,” Felix said. Years of marriage had not improved his ability to express feelings. He was, as ever, a man of action. As such, he kissed her on the forehead and firmly grasped her hands to walk her into the castle.

“Have you been taking care of my babies?” she asked.

“The twins are fine,” he said. “They went out to the villages to help with security. They’ll be very happy to see their mother when they return tomorrow.”

“Is everyone here?” Felix could hear the anxiety in her voice.

“Not everyone, but most of them,” Felix said. “Claude and most of the Leicester people arrived earlier.”

“This will be fun,” Bernadetta said. “This will be fun…yes, we will enjoy ourselves.” Felix chuckled. She was clearly saying it to convince herself. “These are our friends. Why am I so nervous?” Felix held the door open for her as they entered the Great Hall.

“Because Claude’s parties always last through the night, and he gets offended if you don’t enjoy them,” Felix said. “Don’t worry. We can make our polite appearances and then get out.”

Bernadetta nodded. “It will strange to see everyone together again. Oh boy, what do you think they’ll say about us?”

“That we’ve turned into old fools,” Felix said.

Bernadetta rarely came into Fhirdiad. While Felix performed his duties as the Shield of Faerghus, Bernadetta managed affairs at home. It was a good job for her. She didn’t need to leave her study to oversee most of the operations in Fraldarius. Only the most official occasions required her presence, and since Felix eschewed most of those occasions himself, she didn’t even need to play the part of the doting wife. 

Plus, it gave her plenty of time to write her novels. 

“Ah, Bernadetta!” a voice called through the Great Hall. Panic struck her.

Under her breath, Bernadetta said, “you’ve got this, Bernie. Just smile and wave.” She turned up to the second-floor landing. “Ferdinand,” she squeaked, “hello.”

Ferdinand raced down the curved staircases with the spry energy of a twenty-year old. “What a magnificent event! I have greatly anticipated your arrival. Look at us, representing the Black Eagles after all these years.”

“Mmhm, yep. That’s what this is.” Bernadetta laughed nervously. They stared down each other for a moment. Finally, Bernadetta pushed out, “Have you been well?”

“Exceedingly. Well, mostly,” Ferdinand coughed. “But let us speak of happier things. I hear the twins are all grown up. Glenn is to inherit the title of Varley, I am told. I would adore having visit me in Enbarr. Perhaps I could show the young boy how its done in those parts.”

“Don’t remind me,” Bernadetta said. The idea of her son returning to that morose manor and wearing her father’s mantle brought a strange array of feelings for poor Bernadetta. If she had her way, the children would never leave the house. But Glenn bore the Crest of Indech, which was so strongly associated with Varley that his fate had been sealed the second his blood test returned after birth.

There was another awkward beat of silence.

“How is Dorothea?” Bernadetta asked. She glanced around. “Is she here? I heard you two were—”

Ferdinand interrupted with a burst of coughing. “Let us not speak of that. It was many years ago…well, suffice to say, it fell through—”

Bernadetta’s hands flew to her mouth. “Oh no. I am so sorry for bringing it up then. I should have known.”

Ferdinand flailed his hands to try to calm her down. “It is quite all right.”

Amidst this mess of a conversation, Felix just groaned.

Ferdinand quickly swiveled to a new topic. “Have you received my letters?” 

“Ah, yes, those,” Bernadetta said. “They are very alarming, are they not? You don’t think Edelgard is still mad with me after all these years, do you? Because she was quite upset with me when I defected to join Byleth’s army and—”

Felix made a louder grunt this time.

“Don’t be pushy, Ferdinand,” Felix said. “We’re tired. We’re going to bed.” He looped his arm around Bernadetta’s elbow and whisked her away.

Bernadetta turned her head over her shoulder to call out a hasty good night, and Ferdinand shouted his good wishes down the hall after them. The abrupt exit made Bernadetta's heart pound, but she would have been lying if she said that she wasn't the slightest bit relieved. 

Once inside their bedroom, Bernadetta threw herself on the bed in relief. The door formed a heavy barrier between her and the rest of the castle.

“Oh, he’s probably mad at us now,” she moaned into a pillow.

“That’s the only way to deal with jerks like him,” Felix said. “Don’t let it bother you.”

“No, I should talk to him,” Bernadetta said. “I just don’t know what he wants from me. I never fit in with him and the other Black Eagles.” That wasn’t entirely true, she thought. Petra, Caspar, and Linhardt had always been very kind to her, and Dorothea tried, even if Bernadetta had been frightened of associating with commoners. But Ferdinand was like Edelgard and Hubert—too mature, too capable, too intimidating. It always felt like he was expecting something out of her that she couldn't provide. 

Felix peeled off his gloves and his coat. Bernadetta watched him from the half of her face not pressed into the pillow. Forty-seven years old and she always thought she would have outgrown her anxiety. She had come to terms, however, with the fact that she just wasn't a people person. Fortunately for her, her husband wasn't either. 

“People around here put too much stock into things that happened when we were kids,” Felix said. “The boar prince is now the boar king, all because of a girl he liked for a year when he was a child. Ferdinand just goes on and on about Linhardt, as if there isn’t some larger threat at our door. And now I have to play secret operative with Lysithea breathing down my neck.”

“You don’t like her?”

“I don’t trust her,” Felix said, shrugging off his shirt. “She has always played every side. First she was a Golden Deer. Then she switched over to the Empire. Then she betrays Edelgard to serve Byleth. _Then_ she disappears for over a decade doing Sothis knows what, and now we’re supposed to hand over the keys to the city to her?”

Bernadetta picked herself up from the pillow. “Do you remember how she used to force you to eat cake?”

“I remember giving you the cake on several occasions, and it was too sweet for even you.”

“Caspar’s cat certainly liked it though,” Bernadetta said. “I never saw a cat that ate like that thing.”

Felix spared a slight smile. “Well, then it’s settled. If she forces any more cake on us, we’ll take it back for the cats. And hopefully, that will be the worst of it.”

Bernadetta suddenly stood up from the bed. She walked over to her husband and slung her arms around his torso. He half-heartedly tried to wriggle away to slip his sleeping shirt on, but she held him fast and giggled. 

It was a brief moment of respite before the dread returned.

“You’re going to say I’m being paranoid, but shouldn’t we just go home? Edelgard might just come and kill us all.”

Felix nestled his nose into her hair. “Don’t be alarmist. We’ll be fine.”

“There could be another war.”

“If so, we’ll fight it.”

“And our babies? Will they fight?”

“They’re old enough and strong enough,” Felix said. “They’re not babies anymore, Bernie.”

“We no longer have Byleth to save us if something goes wrong,” Bernadetta said.

“We don’t need Byleth,” Felix said. “She’s been gone for a long time. We’ve managed.”

“I don’t want anything to happen to you, Felix,” she said. "Or the twins. Or anyone else for that matter." 

“You know me, Bernie. I won’t throw my life away over something stupid.”

But Felix couldn’t deny that he too felt a deep, perturbing sense of uncertainty. He wasn’t sure that war was on the horizon. Then again, he couldn't even see the horizon any longer. Felix wrapped his arms around Bernie, nestled his nose into her hair, and, despite his own misgivings, tried to pretend that everything would be all right. 

* * *

“Fighting is a lot like dancing.”

Selma raised a skeptical eyebrow at Anton as he handed her one of two long sticks he had fished from out the trash piles growing along the back alleys of Waterside.

“I thought that was just something dumb poets said to glorify violence,” Selma said. Her green eyes tracked Anton as he demonstrated a quick parry of footwork, as if to prove his statement was more than just a cliché.

“I know you’re a bit of a pacifist, Sellie—”

“I wouldn’t go _that_ far.” 

“—But there may be a real danger with this whole Edelgardian threat,” Anton said. “I just want to make sure that you and Geb are going to be safe.”

“Do you really think that Edelgard von Hresvelg has returned to take her vengeance on Faerghus?” Although usually vivacious, Selma had a cutting way of expressing contempt. It was a dry, dour tone of voice, thickly glazed with sarcasm. “No offense, but this so typically Faerghus. You all only survived because the Leicester Alliance and their magic archbishop threw you a bone. If she wanted revenge, wouldn’t she go after Derdriu?”

“I don’t know the motives,” Anton said. “All I know is that Ferdinand and other authorities really do think there is a threat. Aren’t you the least bit worried?”

“Worried about what? That an Emperor has risen from the dead?” Selma mocked. “I’m more worried that this is an excuse to clean out the poorer districts before the nobles throw their big fancy party.”

Selma’s arms were crossed. Her foot pattered angrily against the ground. Anton walked over and physically pried her arms apart. His hands covered hers as he corrected her grasp on the imaginary plank-sword.

“In either case, it doesn’t hurt to know how to protect yourself.” With his hand on hers, he shifted behind her and raised the sword above her head parallel to the ground. “This is first position—”

“I know how to protect myself,” Selma bristled defensively.

“Oh, really? Other than that dull little dagger of yours, have you ever touched a sword or an axe?”

“I’ve used an axe before, thank you very much.”

“For something other than chopping firewood?” Although he stood behind her, he could almost feel the way she pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes. A cold energy radiated off of her. “This is good,” he said, guiding her arm down to second position. “Use that annoyance.”

“You’re lucky I don’t take my dull little dagger and finish you now.”

Anton chuckled. “With that thing, you’d be lucky if you did kill me.” Selma too broke into a soft laugh, but quickly rearranged her face to express irritation. “Now, pay attention. First position,” he raised her arm again, “second position.” He brought it down and out, slightly angled.

Selma allowed him to swing her arms for a few more minutes, even thought he could tell that her thoughts were drifting elsewhere. He tried to teach her footwork, but she stumbled over the basic steps. When he ran a simple drill, she floundered almost immediately.

“You know, I’m starting to suspect you’re not taking this seriously.”

“How do you even expect me to even use this?” Selma asked. “I can’t afford a sword, and even if there was a threat, fighting back would probably get me in more trouble. One girl against armies?”

Perhaps Anton had misread her. He abandoned his plank for a second and approached Selma. A loose strand of dark hair and fallen and shaded her eyes, and in that moment, she appeared so vulnerable, as though the physical combat had forced down the walls of her inner defenses.

“Are you scared, Selma?” Anton traced the shape of her face, first by brushing the hair from her eyes and then by following her cheeks down to her chin, where he turned her face towards him.

“I have every right to be,” she snapped.

“I wasn’t trying to insult you. I’m concerned about you, and I’m trying to help.”

“It’s so easy for you to talk of protecting yourself when you have all the resources in the world to do so.” Her eyes kept darting to look at anything but him. “Your father is likely wealthy. You’re friends with Ferdinand von Aegir. If there’s a threat, you’ll be locked away securely. Geb and I have no one here. If we fail…I mean, fall, that’s it. That’s the end. Our families are too far away, and we have no other resources at our disposal.”

“You have me.”

“I don’t know who you really are, Daniel Eberton,” she said, “but I can guess we wouldn’t fit into your world.”

“That’s all right because I want to fit into yours.”

Selma verged on the edge of something great emotion—a wavering, wide-eyed, wallowing emotion that sucked him into her bright eyes and threatened to consume him. Her lips were parted slightly, and never more than now did he want to kiss her. Electricity darted between them, threatening to collapse the distance, and Anton forgot all of his previous hesitation. He forgot he was a prince. He forgot she was a commoner. He leaned forward slightly to make a move, but Selma stepped back just as suddenly.

“Danny, we can’t be friends.”

All that electricity snapped back and struck him like a bolt to the sky. All of his feeling sizzled out to what to be described as a great gash of disappointment.

“Oh,” was all he could muster to say.

“I’m sorry.” Selma’s voice teetered on the gulf of despair. Her excuses rushed out of her in a deluge of words and rambles. “I’m sorry, it’s just…our parents are very concerned about the dangers in Fhirdiad, and they want us to return to Rusalka, and even if we stay for the anniversary, we’ll be leaving right after.”

“Oh…how does that…I’m sorry, why can’t we be friends?”

“We will never see each other again,” Selma said. “And quite frankly, I’m not certain you want to be our friends.”

“Selma, don’t be ridiculous,” Anton said. “We’ll write. We’ll visit.”

“No, we won’t.”

Anton struggled to make sense of it all. The hurt twisted and seethed; it grew and gnawed. Anton felt something deep rumble inside him—his crest called to him in his anger, and he had to suppress it.

“I don’t understand,” Anton said. “Why so serious all of a sudden? You’re cutting me off because your parents want you to go home? Screw your parents!”

“It’s not so simple,” Selma said. “Geb is all my Uncle has left.”

“Geb hates his father!”

“No, he doesn’t,” Selma said. “They love each other; they just don’t understand each other...oh, never mind.”

“Forget about Geb and your uncle. Do you want to leave? You can make your own decision you know.”

“Look, just because you have a bad relationship with your father does not mean that we all do,” Selma said. “My parents have a right to be concerned.”

“I think I understand—”

“Please, you slum it up with the radicals to ease your affluent guilt and get back at your rich daddy,” Selma said. The words stung. Selma might not have been a fighter, but she knew how to deliver a blow.

“You have no idea what I have gone through,” Danny said. “My parents may be wealthy and connected, but they lied to me my entire life. I know better than you think about the way that this stupid system that controls Fodlan with its crests and bloodlines destroys people. It traps people into webs of obligation, where they either uphold the system or they die. And my desire to change that is sincere.”

It was moments like this that Anton could almost hear his crest—it was a roar that dimly echoed in his ears, begging for release. In most moments and fights, he could control it, but these instances of raw passion often made the cry worse. Stories of his grandfather’s death returned to him.

It was about to get worse.

“Well, ain’t that so sad for the poor rich snitch, Danny,” came a snide voice. Standing at the mouth of the alleyway was Raul and about five of his favorite thugs. “Is that what you do all day, coming here to spy on us with your lordling friends?”

Control was operative, and Anton was losing it. His blood surged, and his veins tightened. The roaring grew louder. Anton had a short sword at his disposal, but killing Raul would probably earn him more trouble than he needed right now. He rolled his sleeves up.

“Selma, leave,” he said.

“No.”

“Listen to your boyfriend, Selma,” Raul said. “I can’t promise there won’t be collateral damage.”

“You want to fight, then fight me,” Anton said. “But make it fair. You and me. None of these other goons.”

“I’m not looking to fight. I’m going to end you,” Raul said. “You’re a snitch, and you’re parading around with those goddamn nobles, and that means you’re a noble. You got a crest, don’t you? Well, I’d pleased to make sure your crest is the first one I remove from this blasted earth.”

This was a bad time to invoke crests. Anton rolled his fists.

Raul charged. Anton swung. He missed his first shot. That was when the goons fell upon him in a mass of arms and legs.

What happened next was a blur. Anton was vaguely aware of his fists connecting with flesh. He could feel bones crunched under his blows. Disconnected images flooded his memory of ducking under arms, tackling into bellies, and thrusting elbows into noses.

It ended with him on the ground, trammeled under a crush of steel-tipped boots. Then the darkness came, and darkness never felt so solid or real. It invaded his senses like thick, cold smoke. His organs turned to ice as he lost sensation in his extremities. And that was the last thing he remembered.

When he woke, it was to bright sunlight on the fractured cobble courtyards behind Waterside’s only school. He shot straight with a heavy gasp for breath. His lungs seized as though thick with pudding.

“You’re all right,” Selma said with a breath of relief. “You took such a heavy blow—"

His brain slurped around his skull like soup. “What happened? I don’t even remember how we got over here?”

“I got us out,” Selma said. “And you’re lucky I did because the constables came and arrested everyone else. It was all I could to drag you away.” He had taken on too much for once, but at least he had escaped with his skin still on. His crest had quieted and stilled. The beast, for now, slept.

Anton collapsed back to lean on the ground. He yearned for the warmth of the sun. The cold had penetrated even his organs. “Raul is arrested?” Selma affirmed it, and Anton sighed. For now, he would have to ignore all his other problems. Ferdinand would want to know about Raul.

* * *

When Mercedes woke up, Lorenz was gone, and there was note on their nightstand. Ashe had returned from Gaspard with some sort of news. The leaders of state—Dimitri, Claude, and Ferdinand— had already shut themselves up in the war room with him. Mercedes figured her husband had gone there as well. She teetered between finding him and waiting until their proceedings. War was not in Mercedes’ blood, and she guessed that with all three of the rulers in one place, things were hectic enough.

Sure enough, as she traversed the castle, she found very few of her former classmates. Annette was sitting outside of the war room, her hands clenched in her lap.

“Oh my, I suppose it is worse than I thought,” Mercedes said.

“Oh, Mercie, I don’t know what to make of all this,” Annette said. “Apparently, the big discussion is whether or not we’re going to parley with Edelgard. Ferdinand wants to, and Dimitri doesn’t, and Claude won’t say one way or the other.”

“Well, whatever happens, we have the strongest army in Fodlan at our back,” Mercedes said. “And besides, Byleth always said that we should come back at this reunion. There’s still time—”

“Do you really believe that?” Annette said.

“I do,” Mercedes said. “Byleth had the goddess in her heart after all, and the Goddess always appears in times of need.”

“I wish I could be so faithful,” Annette said. “Everyone in there is so prepared for war. I haven’t thought of fighting in twenty-five years. What would I do if war started again?”

“There are other ways to support than just fighting,” Mercedes said. “You know what we need? Tea. Let’s go out to the garden, Annie. You need a good old-fashioned boost of morale!”

Annette felt guilty for abandoning the war room, but it wasn’t as if she had been contributing. Later, when all the yelling settled down, Ashe or Dedue or Felix would certainly tell her what happened in there.

Out in the garden, servants brought them tea and baked treats. The sweets weren’t as good as Mercedes’, and Annette hoped that in midst of the chaos she would get a chance to taste her best friend’s biscuits again. Despite the turmoil, Mercedes still managed to wear a smile. 

“How is teaching, Annie?” Mercedes asked. “Do you still enjoy it?”

“I enjoy the teaching,” Annette said, “but the administration and bureaucracy at the school is overwrought. And now with all the panic, they’re canceling classes for at least the next month.”

“What a shame,” Mercedes said. Somewhere deep in the garden, they heard children screeching. Gardeners trimmed the hedges with oversized shears. It was peaceful compared to the chaos of the war room. “I have such fond memories of our days at school. First at the Royal School of Sorcery and then Garreg Mach. I’m still thinking of starting a school in Gloucester for all of the poor children there. You should come teach at it, Annie. I’d even let you run it!”

“That’s a great idea, Mercie,” Annette said.

The shrieks came closer. Mercedes frowned and sat up straight. Suddenly, two boys tumbled through the hedges in front of them. Lukas Gloucester stood up quickly. His fair hair stood up on end, and mud spackled his clothing. Next to him, Theo von Ordelia tore brambles out of his white hair.

“Hi mama,” Lukas said out of breath. He was fourteen, Mercedes’ second son and the noble ‘spare’ of the Gloucester family.

“You better change before your father sees you like that,” Mercedes sang, not without a hint of motherly warning. “And if it isn’t little Theo. How are your mother and sister?”

Theo shrugged. He swiveled his head to look anywhere but the two adults sitting at the table. “They’re good, I guess.”

“Well, why don’t you boys join us,” Mercedes said. “There are muffins.” She held the plate out enticingly.

“I shouldn’t,” Theo said. “Thanks though, Lady Gloucester.”

“Oh, nonsense,” Mercedes said. “Please join us.”

“I’m not supposed to talk to strangers,” he said, looking straight at Annette.

“Annette is not a stranger,” Mercedes said. “She went to school with your mother and me. I’m sure your mother wouldn’t mind.”

“I…have to go find my sister.” Theo dove back into the hedges abruptly. Lukas looked after him longingly, but Mercedes coughed and her eyes flashed with the slightest warning—a motherly sign that he had to be polite to his Aunt Annie.

The muddied boy wriggled into a seat at the table with a loud sigh. He picked through the boxes of tea leaves. “The tea here is not as good as it is in Gloucester.”

“As picky as your father,” Annette said. Lukas pulled a face.

“What were you boys doing? I hope we won’t have a repeat of last Saint Macuil’s day…” Mercedes had a special way of sounding loving, kind, and exasperated all at once.

“Just exploring,” Lukas said. “Father already warned me what would happen if we set something on fire again.”

“Are you excited for the festival?” Annette asked him. Lukas shrugged.

“It should be fun, I guess,” he said. “I’m more excited to see this Edelgard.”

“Don’t say such things,” Mercedes said.

“Why not? It should be exciting. Aren’t you curious if she’s risen from the dead or something?” Lukas said.

“Sounds like someone has been reading those Fraldarius novels,” Annette said.

“Theo thinks that it’s not even the real Edelgard. That it is a clone.”

Annette and Mercedes exchanged a weird expression. That was an odd thing for a young boy to say. They racked their brains from what they had read of Bernadetta’s novels, but neither could remember anything about clones.

“Where would you hear such things?” Mercedes asked.

“Everyone knows Those Slither in the Dark used clones,” Lukas said. “And Theo says that this Edelgard person is one of them. He would know too because his mother is the spymaster.”

“Now, now,” Mercedes said. “I’m not sure we should be spreading rumors.”

Lukas stuffed half a muffin into his mouth. “It’s not a rumor,” he said through a full mouth. “Theo knows all sorts of secrets. I’d tell you, but I made a sacred vow to him not to.”

“Well then you probably shouldn’t tell us that he knows secrets in the first place,” Annette said. Lukas rolled his eyes as he polished off the muffin.

“Well, this was fun,” Lukas swallowed a huge lump of muffin. “May I go now?” Mercedes hemmed warningly. Lukas politely folded his hands and in a voice that echoed his father’s, he bellowed, “Thank you Aunt Annie for the treats. May I please be excused from the table?”

“Go on,” Mercedes said. Lukas dove back into the hedge. His mother cringed watching him. Once he had left, Mercedes sighed and said, “I worry about those Ordelia kids. I’ve found that they don’t trust adults, which is very odd for children their age. Besides, ever since Lukas met Theo, he only ever talks of evil mages and monsters and other terrible things.”

“Unfortunately, Mercie, we may not be able to avoid that any more,” Annette said. “If Edelgard really is coming to Fhirdiad, they’re going to have to terms with such terrible truths sooner rather than later.”

“Well, if I suppose if that’s the case,” Mercedes said, “we’ll have to discover those truths first ourselves.”

* * *

Ferdinand returned to his office with a mind ablaze of possibility. Edelgard’s return felt more real every day, and Dimitri and Claude were both stubbornly trying to push her into war. If only they would talk to her, Ferdinand rationalized. If she had been alive all these years, perhaps there was a good reason why she was making contact now. Perhaps there was another threat. Or something else bad was happening.

Anton was waiting in his office, holding a cold, wet rag over his eye. “See?” Anton said. “I knew it would work.”

Ferdinand didn’t want to contemplate what Dimitri would do to him if he knew that Ferdinand was abetting his son’s deviant behavior. “What would work?”

“Raul found me, and now he’s in jail,” Anton said. He removed the rag from his eye. Judging by the shiner he was sporting, the prince had managed to subdue this Raul fellow. “You wanted to interrogate him?”

Ferdinand sighed. With Ashe returning, the Linhardt case seemed less important than ever. Perhaps Linhardt didn’t have a connection there after all. Maybe Lysithea was right—he was probably dead. Or if he was in hiding, he would stay in hiding. Ferdinand had other important matters to attend to, and his sense of duty urged him to abandon the case and pursue the important matter of confronting Edelgard.

But at the same time, he could not help but feel the tug inside him towards knowing the truth. Twenty-five years of searching reminded him that this case would not go away. Raul was already in jail. He might as well question him. He may never have this opportunity again.

The interrogation room at the Central Jail was at least brighter than the one in Waterside. Raul sat in manacles clamped to the wall. He was a beefy fellow, stamped with tattoos of anchors and star maps.

“Well hello there snitch,” he snarled at Anton.

“What you are going to do about it?” Anton returned.

Ferdinand extended a hand to Raul, but Raul laughed and held up what he could of his shackled wrists.

“My apologies. I am Ferdinand von Aegir, of the hereditary house of Aegir and Prime Minister of Adrestia.”

“You’re the piece of shit that betrayed the Emperor,” Raul said.

“I always found it quite curious how there are Edelgardians in Faerghus,” Ferdinand said. “Pray tell, what loyalty do you owe to the late Emperor Edelgard?”

“She was going to change the world,” Raul said. “She was going to get rid of your crests, and then there would no House Aegir and no stinkin’ nobles like you.”

“I understand you are also quite fond of her former scholar-general, Linhardt von Hevring. I suppose you believe he was the one conducting the research to do this.”

“Yeah. So what?”

“So I am investigating whether this research had anything to do with your friend Liesl’s death.”

Raul began to laugh. “I ain’t tellin’ you nothing. There’s no way that some hoity-toity lord like you cares one bit about Liesl. You want her research. You want to know what she knew.”

“That is a fairly insightful observation.”

“I’m a fairly insightful guy.” Raul didn’t strike Ferdinand as particularly smart, but he was certainly smug. Ferdinand hoped he could turn this to his favor.

“Were there many people interested in Liesl’s research?” Ferdinand asked. “I hear there is one Marco Waltzer who apparently butted heads with her?”

“Marco’s one of those Almyran-loving Leicester folk,” Raul said. “Everyone thinks he offed her, but I know it weren’t him. I heard you all found magic in the cellar. Well, Marco ain’t got the coin to hire the mage that came into Liesl’s place. He’s a flat broke son of a bitch who—”

“Are there other reasons you doubt Marco?”

“Yeah, Marco don’t cut folks,” Raul said. “Marco tends to smash their heads in. I saw the cut on her neck. Clean, sharp razor. Also, he ain’t smart enough to pull a trick like poison, and also, if I saw him within a hundred meters of the Scrub, I woulda—”

“That should be sufficient evidence about Marco,” Ferdinand said. “Tell me about this Gebhardt Breslin. Why was Liesl so interested in him?”

The fierce, angry energy that Raul radiated suddenly faded. He studied his feet intensely. For once, he said nothing at all.

“I must admit, I also searching for Linhardt von Hevring, and Liesl’s research has attracted my attention,” Ferdinand said. “Liesl seemed to believe there was a connection between Linhardt and Gebhardt.”

Raul spoke in a soft voice, like a child frightened of his teacher. “You want Linhardt von Hevring? Look to the Agarthans. He was one of them. They took him underground. That Geb, he knows it. Geb was made from that.”

Anton stifled a snort of laughter. Ferdinand clenched his jaw. Leaning back in his chair, he swiped Anton on the arm. “Quiet,” he hissed.

“Why exactly did Liesl believe that Linhardt was involved with the Agarthans?”

“The man was arrested for heretical blood magic, like the kind the Agarthans did,” Raul said. “It was said he took blood from Archbishop Rhea herself for his experiments. The Agarthans wanted that information.”

“I’ve heard that you believe he is a clone of Linhardt von Hevring.”

“Not quite so simple, but I think he was made from Linhardt’s research, yeah.”

“Can you clarify what you mean by that?”

“I don’t understand these science things,” Raul said. “Liesl did. She was much smarter. She could outsmart a fox. But I know that Geb ain’t natural.”

“Why?”

“Because I saw it. I saw his crest.”

Ferdinand looked to Anton for direction. Anton was frowning. “Geb doesn’t have a crest,” Anton said.

“I saw it,” Raul said. “Before you ever came around, Danny. And Liesl identified it. It was the same crest that that Hevring had.”

“And what of Selma Breslin? She purports to be his cousin. Does that make her an Agarthan as well?”

Raul shrugged. “I don’t know about her, but have you met their other cousin?” he said softly. “The Almyran one.”

“Hassan?” Anton asked. Ferdinand recalled some discussion of this cousin when he had spoken to Geb and Selma in the market. _Hassan has run away again._ Raul nodded in confirmation. “What happened?”

“He changed,” Raul said. “Became full of weird light. Controlled the skies itself. I saw it, I did, and Geb stopped him with his magic, and that’s when I saw his crest.”

Ferdinand had to digest this information. His mood began to sour. He was beginning to think that Anton was correct—that Liesl was mad.

“Geb stopped him with…magic?” Anton sounded even more incredulous. “I mean, I know he knows some healing spells. His parents were both doctors after all but—"

“This was not some woo-woo church faith magic,” Raul said. “This was dark shit. He moved the shadows.”

Ferdinand still wasn’t certain if he trusted Raul. _Let’s say the man is correct,_ Ferdinand reasoned with himself, _then that would implicate the use of dark magic. And dark magic is the calling card of the Agarthans._

Ferdinand remembered the ease with which Hubert wielded the darkness. He had only learned it himself from the Agarthan mages that infested Edelgard’s court. And Lysithea supposedly had the same powers as well thanks to her childhood experimentation. Ferdinand considered that he would have to ask her for her help, which he doubted she would assent to.

Ferdinand remembered the magical residue left in Liesl’s tavern. Lysithea had insisted it was reason magic, but he supposed there was a possibility it could have been dark magic. The two traditions had many similarities, to Ferdinand’s understanding.

“Do you think that Gebhardt Breslin murdered Liesl?” he asked Raul.

Anton made a strangle noise. “That is out of line!” The prince leapt to his feet. “You are just desperate to implicate him in something, aren’t you?”

“Sit down,” Ferdinand said crossly to Anton. “I will ask you again, Raul. Is it your belief that Gebhardt Breslin murdered Liesl?”

Raul rolled his jaw. “I ain’t a snitch.”

“You have gone too far,” Anton continued. “You are obsessed—"

“You may leave then,” Ferdinand said. Anton looked at him wide-eyed. He didn’t budge. “Go. I do not require you further on this matter.” Anton stood up in a huff.

“Hey, Danny,” Raul called as Anton went to the door. “You’re damn lucky that Selma saved you back there.” Anton’s brow furrowed in confusion. The statement caught Ferdinand off caught guard. He made a mental note to ask Anton later what Raul meant by that.

Once Anton was gone, the interrogation continued. Raul finally bent: “Fine, I’ll say this. It wasn’t Geb, but I sure as hell ain’t telling you who I thought it was. Last thing I want is my head next on the block.”

“Thank you, Raul,” Ferdinand said. “I will be sure to put in a good word with prosecutor on your case.”

“Don’t bother,” Raul said. “Second I get out of here, I’m good as dead.”

Ferdinand gathered up his belongings to leave. Raul’s suggestion rolled about in his head. It had not occurred to Ferdinand that Geb was someone embroiled in Liesl’s murder. Everyone else had insisted it was another ruffian on the docks, not the scrawny little political hack. But if Geb could use dark magic and if he had a crest, it was certainly possible.

Ferdinand thought then about his cousins—Selma and her uncanny familiarity; the Almyran and his strange powers. Something bad was happening here. Ferdinand didn’t know what. Perhaps Liesl was insane. Perhaps Raul had no idea what he was talking about. Perhaps the Breslins were innocent.

But the more Ferdinand thought about it, the more he worried that something more sinister was at play than he ever thought possible. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's 2020, and I finally made a Twitter. I have no idea how social media works, but you can follow me @skreev1.


	7. Apocalypse and Apotheosis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Checkpoints and guards delay our travelers, but has no effect on Edelgard's army, which appears mysteriously in the Tailtean Plains. As Ferdinand and Annette leave to meet the army of ghosts, Marianne and Claude must deal with a murder within the walls. Meanwhile, Corisande von Ordelia confronts Anton with a secret.

Amina closed her eyes to the pulse of the water around her. Bare feet scraped the bottom of the riverbed, her arms drifted upwards fruitlessly towards the surface. Green light blazed through the depths. She wanted to cry, but when she opened her mouth, water filled her lungs. The water muffled the screams from the surface, and as the light grew brighter, so too did the terror.

Amina woke with a heavy weight pressing on her chest. Light had just broken over the horizon. She kicked off the sheets of her bedroll and inhaled deeply, trying to divest the phantom that crushed her lungs.

She hadn’t had this dream in years. The nightmare was a childhood eidolon that had haunted her for many years, but time had worn away the memory to a nub. Amina couldn’t even remember the last time she had even thought of it. Now it revisited her almost every night.

“Oh, you’re awake,” Hassan said. Pilgrims and other travelers clogged the roads north, and they hadn’t been able to find an inn since they left Raphael’s. Instead, they took to camping outside, which Raphael thought would be a great exercise for his young friends. Hassan took to it naturally. He bragged about camping in the Oghma mountains, and Raphael enjoyed his stories every night.

Amina, on the other hand, still wasn’t sure what to think of this strange man.

Hassan dangled a line of fish in front of her. Amina shrieked and scooted back. “Whoa, hey there,” he said. “It’s just breakfast.”

“Sorry,” Amina said. “I don’t like fish. I mean, they’re fine to eat. Sorry. Thank you.” She was all out of sorts. The bubble of the water still echoed in her ears.

“You’re scared of fish?” Hassan said. “That’s silly! Why don’t I take you down to the river, and I’ll teach you how to catch a few. No better way to get over your fears.”

“No!” Amina said sharply. “Look, I’m scared of deep water. Are you happy now?”

Hassan frowned. “Are rivers deep water?”

“If you can drown in it, I don’t like it,” Amina said. “I almost drowned when I was a kid. Just about died.” She was breathing heavily now. She always wondered if the dream was a memory or simply a manifestation of the fears born from that event. She had no other memories of that time.

“Oh, sorry,” Hassan said. “I didn’t mean to upset you.” 

“It’s not your fault,” Amina said. “My dad thinks the same as you. He thinks I should learn how to swim and get over it. He lives in Derdriu part time, and that city is pretty much my living nightmare.”

“Ah, I always wanted to go to Derdriu,” Hassan said. “A floating city. That sounds awesome. Sorry, um, I mean—that would be terrifying for you.” He began tenting sticks again to start a fire for breakfast. “My mom is scared of water too. She never let me swim much when I was a kid.”

“That’s the problem with parents, huh? The more they push you in one direction, the farther you go in the other.”

Hassan grinned at that. “Yeah, I love my mom, but she’s sort of overbearing. That’s why I’m going to Fhirdiad. Going to meet up with my cousins and have a real party with all this anniversary hullabaloo.”

The fire sparked to life. Amina helped him fan the flames while he gutted the fish and skewered the meat on sticks. The smell of fish on the fire roused Raphael from his slumber. He roared to life.

“Is that trout I smell?” Raphael devoured his portion nearly whole. Amina nibbled at hers, trying to push down the nauseous anxiety with solid food. They had a little bread left, but it was hard and unpalatable. It slid down her throat like a rock dropping in water. 

After they cleaned up camp, they packed up the cart and turned north again towards Fhirdiad, Raphael drove his cart, and Hassan sat beside him, chatting amiably. As they rattled further north, traffic thickened and clogged the roads.

Amina enjoyed watching the strangers: pilgrims cloaked in green and white, Leicester citizens wearing their goldenrod flags, and the occasional Adrestian in red and black. She saw apprentice mages, sprung free from their academies, in sweeping robes. Soldiers moved by in large formations that forced Raphael’s cart to a standstill on the side of the road.

“Ah, we’re hitting our first checkpoint,” Raphael said. Amina peered up ahead. A hastily-constructed wooden gate cinched the road.

“Checkpoints? What for?” Hassan asked.

“Some business about Edelgardians,” Raphael said. “King Dimitri is taking it real seriously. I hope you all have your papers?” Amina had her seal of Riegan, her papers of nobility, and various other proofs of her identity. Like any noble child, she had been taught at a young age to keep these pressed close to her at all times. They rested in a small purse sewn into her garments.

Hassan went gray. “Our papers? We need papers?”

“Is that a problem?” Amina asked.

“Uh, no,” Hassan said. “It’s just that…fine, it’s a problem.”

“You don’t have any papers?” Amina said.

“It’s really no problem. I’ve gotten around borders and checkpoints before,” Hassan said. “I’ll just go around the long way and meet you on the other side.” He stood to leap off the carriage, but Raphael grabbed him by the back of his shirt. All it took was a single tug to pull him back down into his seat. 

“Where are you going, buddy?” Raphael said. “This isn’t that big of a deal. Amina and I will get you through.”

“How do you not have any papers?” Amina asked.

“Look, where I come from, people don’t have papers. It’s not a bad thing. We’re not like criminals or anything. We just don’t want other people in our business, is all.”

Amina had never heard of such a thing. The closest thing she could think were the unincorporated villages between Almyra and Leicester that belonged to neither country, but Hassan was from the heart of Fodlan.

“Look, just stick with me,” Amina said. Nobility had its perks. She could probably slip Hassan in on her word alone. “I’ll tell them you’re with me.”

“Yeah, leave it to Amina,” Raphael said.

Hassan frowned. “I’m not sure.”

Amina pulled from her secret pouch a medallion with the Crest of Riegan. “You see this?” she asked. She thought it might placate Hassan. Instead, his mouth dropped, and his face blanched an even deeper ash.

“You’re nobility?” he asked.

Amina had never explained to him who she was. She figured he thought she was like him: the unclaimed child of an Almyran soldier and a random Fodlanese woman. Whereas she up to this point had mistaken him to be like her: an individual caught between two countries and identities.

The truth was that despite their similar background, Amina could not help but feel an increasing gulf with Hassan, as though he became more of a stranger every day.

“It’s not a big deal,” Amina said. “Just stay quiet, and I’ll tell them you’re one of my Almyran retainers. They won’t dare touch you then.”

Hassan appeared unconvinced. “I really don’t mind sneaking past—”

“Don’t make me tie you down,” Raphael said. “You worry too much, Hassan. Besides, there’s a great pub just a few miles beyond the checkpoint; they make the best corned beef hash you ever tasted. You can trust us, bud.”

“Trust you. Yeah, all right. I’ll try that,” he said. “Sorry, I just…I was raised to not really trust the nobility. No offense, milady.”

“Don’t call me that.”

Hassan fidgeted in his seat as they neared the gates. Amina climbed to the front seat of the wagon, her medallion glinting in the sun. The first guard to see abruptly snapped to attention and called for the streets to clear so that the wagon could pass through more quickly. The attention brought a wave of self-conscious anxiety. Years of etiquette lessons had taught her how to bear her noble body, but inside, Amina wanted to shrink into a particle and disappear. 

At the gates themselves, they had to sign into the ledgers. “Lady Amanda,” as they insisted on calling her, signed first: Amanda von Riegan of Derdriu—all of it felt like a lie. Raphael scribbled his in barely legible print. Hassan took note of this, and when he wrote his, it was in such abysmal handwriting that even Amina couldn’t make it out, and she knew his name already.

“Does he have papers?” They asked Amina, not Hassan. Hassan studied his feet intensely.

But if there was one thing the von Riegans could do, it was spin a good story.

“He doesn’t speak Fodlanese,” Amina said. “He can barely write it as you see. My father brought him in as a birthday present last year, and it’s been nothing but trouble. He doesn’t understand why he needs to bring his papers everywhere. The dullard must have left them back in Derdriu.”

The guard appraised Hassan for a minute. Amina could hear his breath pounding from his lungs. Hassan apparently didn’t know how to sell a bit. He appeared so nervous, the guard might arrest him on suspicion alone. Amina could not tell through the helmet if the guard believed her or not. Then he waved his hand, and it was over. 

“Yes, milady. You may go ahead.”

Raphael’s wagon pulled through the gates. Hassan waited a minute before releasing a giant sigh and slinking down in his seat.

“See? That wasn’t so bad,” Amina said. She glanced over towards Hassan. His head had dropped into his hands.

“Von Riegan,” he whispered to himself. Raphael ignored him, but Amina heard him plain as day. “Von Riegan,” he repeated, as though it were a puzzle he was trying to solve. 

* * *

As it were, the von Riegan group was not the only one to encounter a checkpoint that day.

“Papers?”

“My name is Ashe Ubert of House Gaspard,” Ashe panted heavily.

“Papers?”

“I don’t have my papers, but it is imperative that I return to Fhirdiad and alert King Dimitri—”

The guards began to laugh. “Well, that’s a new one,” one barked, “unfortunately for you _, Lord Gaspard_ , it seems as though you have already come through.” The scribe flipped through the books and presented Ashe the “proof.” Someone had scrawled his name in a poor imitation of his signature.

“Please, that was not me.”

“Well, that Lord Gaspard had the seal of the nobility,” the guard said. “And you look as though you just escaped a drunken bar brawl.” The guards continued to laugh. “Now get out of here before we arrest you for imitating the nobility.”

“I must get through,” Ashe insisted, “there must be some way.”

“No papers. No entrance,” the guard said. “So the king demands.” The guards suddenly bored of him. They had stopped laughing, and one gripped his halberd menacingly. Ashe backed away from the gate. He disappeared into the waiting crowd before the guards could change his mind.

Jeritza was right. There was no point trying to get through these gates. They would have to find a way around. Ashe had last left Jeritza by a small copse about a mile out from the checkpoint. By the time he returned, Jeritza had disappeared. Knowing him, he could be gone for good. Ashe felt a pang of hopelessness. He slid down, back against a tree, until he had crumpled near the roots.

All he needed was a minute to collect himself. There had to be a way to get through this checkpoint. But all he could think about was his clone riding into Fhirdiad, taking his place in the war room, living in his home with Dedue. And if this creature bore some malice, what would he do to Dedue! Alone and vulnerable together.

“Steel yourself, Ashe,” he told himself. “You were a thief once. You once broke into House Gaspard. You can sneak through this.”

But it had been many years since his childhood career as a thief. He wasn’t even sure if he could manage anymore. Age had diminished his natural agility. Before he had marched up to the checkpoint, he had briefly considered pickpocketing papers off someone else. The idea of it made him squirm with unease; that poor person needed their identity too. Now that the guards had seen his face, he doubted he would get away with such a scheme.

Ashe was so deep into his thoughts that he didn’t even hear the hoofbeats approaching until the shadow of a horse fell across him. Glancing up, he saw Jeritza’s long form blocking the sun.

“There you are,” Jeritza drawled. “I suppose I don’t need to say ‘I told you so.’”

“Where’d you get that horse.”

“I found it.”

“You stole it.”

“Both are technically correct.” The horse snorted and tapped its feet impatiently. “Well, what are you waiting for? We must ride far to circumvent Dimitri’s cronies.”

“I don’t like the idea of riding a stolen horse, no matter how bad our situation is.”

“Well, then you can run behind it,” Jeritza said.

Ashe panicked. The threat was probably very real with Jeritza. _This is for the greater good,_ Ashe reminded himself. One day, when this was all over, he would return with double the price of the horse to give to the poor farmer or laborer who had lost it.

It should have surprised Ashe to see how strong Jeritza was. With one hand, he deftly pulled Ashe up to the top of the horse. The movement made Ashe’s sore and fractured joints scream with pain, a sensation not at all helped by the uneven clop of the horse.

Jeritza bolted into the countryside. Ashe gripped his back desperately. The horse was a draught horse, designed to pull heavy loads instead of running fast. Its pace quickly slowed, and Ashe was grateful to catch his breath.

“You never told me why the Agarthans have returned,” Ashe said.

“So?”

“Look, Dimitri is on edge right now. If you want to prove yourself useful and see your sister, you’ll have to give us something,” Ashe said. “Otherwise, there’s a whole castle full of soldiers who will gladly take you down.”

“I’d like to see that,” Jeritza said, chuckling.

“So why bother to save me after all?” Ashe said. “What use will it be if you don’t help us?”

“I don’t know why the Agarthans are attacking,” Jeritza said. “The others will talk of apocalypse and apotheosis, but I’m not interested in such matters.”

“Apocalypse and apotheosis? What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means that while the cats away at their little reunion, the rats have come out to play.”

“But we know they’re infiltrating Dimitri’s court with doppelgangers,” Ashe said. “The people who tried to kill me—they mentioned people named Pythia and Trophonius. I think Trophonius is the man who replaced me.”

“What does it matter?” Jeritza said. “He is likely already in the palace. What use is it knowing his name?”

“I’m trying to fit the pieces together,” Ashe said. “What few clues we have may be essential to understanding what is happening here.”

“We understand what is happening. There is a clone. We will hunt him down, and we will kill him. And then I think I shall enjoy the party. My sister always was an excellent baker.”

If anything, Jeritza’s patter only succeeded in aggravating Ashe’s tightly knotted anxiety. He prayed that they would be able to sneak their way into Fhirdiad and reveal the truth before much damage was done. Once one of them had infiltrated, what would stop them from creating more clones and replacing more of his friends?

Jeritza reared back on the horse’s reins suddenly. Ashe’s face smashed into his back.

Cringing in pain, Ashe asked, “what in the world happened?”

Without explanation, Jeritza slid from the mount. He drew his sword from the horse’s saddle. Ashe squinted. Something was on the horizon. A block of tents and banners and trenches. Soldiers milled between the tents. The sight wavered like a mirage in the desert.

“What is that?” he asked.

“Look at them swarm,” Jeritza said. “Piling in their own filth.”

“That’s not Dimitri’s army,” Ashe said breathless. His heart rate ramped up to unimaginable levels. “Is that Edelgard?”

Jeritza’s teeth glinted in the sun as he laughed. “That is a banquet.”

“Jeritza, we must return to Dimitri and warn him.”

“Oh, I’m certain he will know soon enough.” Jeritza took a few step forwards.

“You cannot be thinking of going over there,” Ashe said. “That is madness! Suicide!" Jeritza kept walking forward. "You can't walk there! Jeritza, what are you thinking?" His stride grew longer, faster. "You’ll never see your sister if you do!” The pace stopped. 

Jeritza sighed in disappointment. “You are correct,” he said. “But you know what this means, correct?”

“That the Agarthans are behind Edelgard’s return.”

“No.” Jeritza hefted himself back onto the saddle. “That we’ll have to find another route.”

* * *

As Anton returned to his chambers, he heard a scuffling noise from inside. At first he gave it no heed—perhaps it was one of his chamberlains or another servant tidying up. He spent so little time in his room that he didn’t even know their schedules any more.

But it was no servant. Anton froze in his doorway as he saw Corisande von Ordelia shuffling through a pile of papers that she had dumped on his desk.

“Can I help you?” he asked. She spun around, pamphlets balled in each fist.

“How do you know this Gebhardt Breslin?” Corisande asked. She sounded… _furious_? “He’s been writing all of these scurrilous tracts against mother.” She crumbled up a pamphlet and tossed it at Anton.

“How did you find those?” Anton asked. “I am fairly certain I hid those.” He glanced towards the loose tile where he kept most of his contraband. Corisande had pried it loose, and it now rested on the floor beside the hole.

“You have letters from him. You have drafts of papers you wrote with him!” Corisande was breathing heavily. “If you are friends with him, you ought to let him know that he will not get away with this.”

“You know, you have no right to be angry,” Anton said. “You broke into my chambers—the chambers of the prince of this nation—and rooted through his belongings.”

“Well, it wasn’t as if I was looking for seditious literature.” Corisande crossed her arms. “I was seeking out another hunch.”

“That does not make it better,” Anton said. “You realize that, right?”

“I know your secret, Anton,” Corisande taunted.

Anton scoffed. “Which one?”

Corisande’s voice lowered to a seething whisper. “I know about your crest.”

“Most people do.”

“It’s not the Crest of Blaiddyd, is it?”

Now it was Anton’s turn to rage. Years of concealment down the drain. “How in the abyss would you know that?”

Corisande smiled with satisfaction. “A guess, which you so kindly confirmed for me. There have always been rumors about your mother’s lineage.”

“So you came here to threaten me?”

“I need help with something,” Corisande said. “And I don’t trust anyone else in this palace. So you’re going to help me, or I’m going to tell everyone what you are.”

“I see your mother has been training you to follow in her footsteps as Spymaster,” Anton said.

“You know nothing about my mother,” Corisande said. “And idiots like you are the reason why Fodlan is going to drown under the sea. But my request is not difficult. It simply requires discretion.”

“Well, out with it then.”

“I saw this Gebhardt once. When he attacked our carriage with eggs. I think I ought to give him a piece of my mind, don’t you think? I want to meet with him and make sure he understands what’s he dealing with.”

“That’s it?” Anton said. “And if I do this, you promise you’ll never tell anyone about my crest or those pamphlets you found?”

“Yes. Mind you, the difficult part will be getting me out of the palace without alarms,” Corisande said. “Mother has forbidden us from going into the city alone, and she cannot know about it.”

“So I have to sneak you out?”

“You do it quite often, I understand,” Corisande said. “And you must be good at it because nobody but Ferdinand von Aegir knows that you’ve been traipsing around Waterside like its your boudoir.”

“How do you know that?”

“As if I would reveal my hand so easily.”

“What is all this for?” Anton asked. “Can I at least ask that?”

Corisande shrugged. “I am merely trying to protect my brother.”

Anton racked his brain. Her brother was the white-haired one, right? He couldn’t keep track anymore. There were too many heirs in the palace, and he had spent most of his nights in Waterside.

“Well, whatever,” Anton said. “I’ll arrange it. Now will you please get out of my room?”

Corisande left his room. Anton collected up the papers on the table and shoved them back into their secret recess. Now he had two people blackmailing him with the truth. At this rate, it might have been easier to just tell his father everything.

* * *

The pummel of fists against the door woke Marianne. Dimitri was already out of bed. Marianne sat up suddenly, cold air prickling the hairs on her bare arms. She could not make sense of what the voices yelled at her door.

“—Passed through the Tailtean Plains—”

“—no record of any army—

Marianne wrapped the blanket around her and tiptoed towards the door. Dimitri stood, statue still, wearing nothing but a loose pair of silk trousers. Marianne only saw the glint of armor through the door. 

“They swear, your majesty, that they did not see the army pass—”

“—they’re calling it the Ghost Corps, sir. About ten thousand strong—”

“—no siege weapons. Perhaps they are not planning a direct assault on the city—”

“Enough,” Dimitri kept his emotions tightly reined, but the raw rattle of his voice told Marianne everything she needed to know. “I understand. I will join you shortly.” He closed the door. Marianne waited for him to turn to her and explain, but he just stood there—staring at the closed door.

“Um, Dimitri?” she murmured. “What is wrong?”

“They saw her again. Her and her army of ghosts.” His fist clenched and unrolled, clenched and unrolled. “In the Tailtean Plains. Past all the checkpoints. As if they just suddenly manifested out of the atmosphere.”

Marianne reached for her husband. Her hands scaled the plane of his back, over the tensed ridges pinched between his shoulders, along the constricted muscles of his arms. His breath chugged at an uneven tempo. Marianne had to stand on her toes to lean her cheek against his shoulder. His heart sounded like a war drum.

“I must go.” He did not move from that door. “I have to see her.”

Marianne remained quiet. Words would have no effect now. Dimitri had already decided what he had to do. They would not comfort or persuade. Instead, she traced the outline of his name along his back.

“I should take Anton,” Dimitri said.

“Oh, I see.” Marianne felt the muscles constrict beneath her fingers when she said it. It was though Dimitri knew what she feeling, even though she barely said it.

“This will be good for him. It will show him what is at stake.”

“But what if it is a trap?”

“Argh!” Dimitri grabbed at his hair. His body keeled forward. “My head!” He slammed against the door, head rolling back against the wood.

“Dimitri, what is wrong?”

“I hear them. My parents. Rodrigue. Glenn.”

“Dimitri, they are not real.”

“I failed them. That’s what they tell me.”

“Dimitri, come back to bed. You cannot leave like this. You need rest and—”

“I need to finish the job,” Dimitri said. “That is the only thing that will satisfy the dead.”

Marianne tugged at his arms to pull him back to bed, but Dimitri was always so much stronger than her. He slid from her soft grasp.

“I must go.”

“Dimitri, please, you are not well. Leave this to someone else.”

“It has to be me,” Dimitri said. “I must be the one to kill her. I failed before. I will not fail again. This time, I will make sure it is final.”

He fumbled to open the door, about to lurch out without even a shirt on his back. Marianne fought back tears. Now it was her turn to take action.

“Goddess, forgive me,” she said. Her hands glowed white, and she plunged the magic into her husband’s skin. A simple spell, designed to give patients in the ward relief from their pain. Marianne prayed it gave Dimitri some respite as well.

Marianne caught him as he tumbled. He was too heavy for her, and so they both spilled to the ground. His head lolled against her shoulder as Marianne screamed for the servants to help her.

* * *

“Well, I suppose Dimitri is now indisposed.” Ferdinand tugged on his riding gloves. “I cannot say that I am not relieved. I have been concerned about his condition of late.”

Claude leaned sleepily on a pillar. “Are you going to be all right out there?”

“Are you positive you do not wish to join me?”

Claude shrugged. “Look, someone needs to keep an eye on Dimitri. According to the laws of the Triumvirate, if he wakes and still cannot rule, one of us technically gets to take charge of Fhirdiad. Can’t send both the spares out on this trip.”

“You never were a risk taker, were you Claude?”

“Of the three rulers of Fodlan, at least one of us has to survive this mess.”

“I shall accept that as a vote of your rousing confidence.”

“You were good friends with Edelgard once,” Claude said. “What are you going to say when you meet her again?”

“I have a few questions in mind,” Ferdinand began to lace up the saddlebags. “But friends is perhaps too strong of a word. Edelgard never accepted my counsel. She divested my father of his titles and sent him to die at the hands of angry mob stoked by her Uncle. I would try my hardest to voice my concerns within her court, but strangely enough, I always had better luck convincing Hubert of these things than her.”

“Hubert,” Claude shivered. “What do you think happened to him? He was supposed to have been executed with Edelgard. So if she’s alive, the old dastard must be as well.”

“That is precisely one of my primary curiosities,” Ferdinand said. “Either he will still serve by her side, in which case, I probably will not survive the journey, or he will be dead.”

Claude grinned. “Or this Edelgard is an imposter. Have you considered that?”

“Yes. Leonie and Hilda certainly are fond of the theory that the Agarthans have somehow survived extinction. I am a proponent of the more mundane theory that this some halfwit Edelgardian pretender,” Ferdinand said. “It would be lovely if she were the original woman, and we could just all get along again, but that is not the reality of our situation.”

“By the way, I was going to ask,” Claude said. “How is your investigation into Linhardt?”

“I think I will have to abandon that mission,” Ferdinand said. “I fear that it may have become too personal for me, and it has led me on quite the tangent. I am not certain that finding Linhardt at this rate will reveal anything of Edelgard’s current plans.”

“Well, if you decide that this Edelgard is an impostor, I think you ought to continue searching,” Claude said. “You know, Byleth thought the same thing all those years ago. She thought that Linhardt had to know something about where Edelgard went.”

The implication struck Ferdinand like a hoof to the face. His arms dropped from the saddle. Slowly, he turned around. “Why would Byleth wish to find Edelgard if she was the one who executed her?”

Claude grinned sheepishly. “Whoops. Probably shouldn’t have said that.”

“What do you know, Claude?” Ferdinand said. “Is it all prevarication with you, or have you found it in your heart to speak a word of truth for once?”

“All I am saying is that your investigation might be closer to the truth than you realized,” Claude said. “Where it leads, I can’t say, but don’t give it up now. If this is the real Edelgard, then I suppose it won’t matter, but if it is an imposter—”

“Then we will have to find the real Edelgard,” Ferdinand said. “And force her to assist us.” Ferdinand’s mind fermented with possibility: imposter or real, what was worse? “I assume that you have not revealed this to Dimitri.”

Claude laughed. “What do you think?”

“A wise decision,” Ferdinand said. “Keep it close to your chest for now.”

“You don’t need to tell me that.”

There was a crash behind Claude. “Shoot, shoot, sorry!” It was Annette in her riding gear. She was hopping on one foot, trying to steady a potted shrub that she had nearly knocked over. “Uh, Ferdinand, wait. I’m coming with you.”

“Annette, are you certain?”

“Yes, I saw her the last time. I want to see her again,” Annette said. “Is that strange? I have questions, and I—”

“I would appreciate your expertise,” Ferdinand said. “May I ask your opinion, Annette? Do you believe this is the real Edelgard?”

“Well, I didn’t know the Edelgard all that well,” Annette said. “The person I saw certainly had the same…intensity as Edelgard did. She looked so much like her too, and her voice…I had no reason to believe it wasn’t.”

Ferdinand raised his eyebrows at Claude. “Perhaps it is not an imposter. What then?”

Claude laughed nervously. “Then I guess we’re really screwed.”

* * *

By the time the cathedral tolled the morning bell, Ferdinand and his party had departed, and few in Castle Blaiddyd had slept. Hilda wasn’t sure when she had woken, but the windows were dark and stars saturated the sky. Footsteps in the corridor had startled her awake, followed by a persistent shouting in the courtyards.

By the time dawn empurpled the sky, Hilda had surrendered any hope of sleep. Someone had screamed from the other side of the palace, and she could hear Leonie gossiping loudly with Mercedes outside her door. Finally, she dragged herself out of bed, threw on an old robe, and poked her head out.

“How am I supposed to get any sleep with all this commotion?” Hilda yawned.

“Haven’t you heard?” Leonie said. “Edelgard’s army is in the Tailtean Plains.”

“Weren’t we expecting this?” Hilda asked. “I don’t know what all the hubbub is about.”

“Oh, but that isn’t the worst of it,” Mercedes said. “Dimitri is not well.”

“Oh boy, I can guess what that means,” Hilda said with sigh. “I guess Marianne is probably freaking out, huh?” Although exhausted, Hilda could only imagine Marianne’s state. It was a strange job, supporting the Queen of Faerghus, and normally Hilda would have been pleased to pass off her chores to someone else, but this was a duty no one else could do.

After dressing and brushing her hair, Hilda marched down to the royal wing of the palace. The guards refused her entry at first, but Hilda had clout as the sister of a general and the queen’s confidante.

She found Marianne sitting on a bench outside of her chambers, still in her nightgown. She wore a bedsheet protectively around herself, like a child afraid of monsters. Her robin-blue hair curled in knots down her back.

“Oh, Hilda, you didn’t need to come,” Marianne said.

“Didn’t need to come? You’re wearing a blanket!”

“I am afraid I have bothered you.”

Hilda perched beside Marianne on the bench. Her fingers worked to detangle the knots in Marianne’s hair. “Marianne, I need you to say something for me. Repeat after me.”

Marianne gave a bewildered frown with but nodded.

“This,” Hilda said.

“This,” Marianne repeated.

“Is not.”

“Is not.”

“Your fault.”

“My…” Marianne took a deep shuddering gulp of air. “Oh, Hilda, I do not know what I can do.”

“I tried to warn you about this when you married the guy,” Hilda said. “You cannot take on all of his burdens by yourself. You’re a good wife, but you need to take care of yourself sometimes.”

“I cannot leave his side. If he wakes up—"

“Where’s Anton? He can wait for his father to wake up while you take a bath and get dressed. I bet you haven’t even eaten.”

Judging by Marianne’s strangled sob, that was the wrong thing to say.

“I am a terrible mother,” Marianne said between cascades of tears. “I do not know where my own son is half the time. He avoids me like the plague. I brought misfortunate upon all of us.”

“Oh brother.” Hilda reached for a handkerchief and offered it to Marianne. When Marianne didn’t take it, she tipped her best friend’s face up and dabbed up the tears. “Marianne, you are a fantastic mother.” Hilda stood suddenly. She pulled Marianne up by the hand. “I know what you need.”

A few minutes later, Marianne— _still_ in her nightgown— stared down a beautiful blue roan thoroughbred from her stables. Hilda had at least prised the blanket from her shoulders and replaced it with one of her own crochet sweaters. She had also managed to plait Marianne’s hair in a half-way acceptable fashion. Yet anyone looking at the queen could not mistake her state of mind.

“What a pretty horse,” Hilda squealed. Her hands ran down its mane. “What is his name?”

Marianne swallowed down her tears. “Cleto,” she said hesitantly.

“I bet Cleto thinks you’re a very good mother,” Hilda said. “I bet you take very good care of Cleto.” Cleto nudged Marianne with his nose, searching her hands for a sugar cube or a slice of apple. Marianne let her hands wander down his neck and pressed her face against his mane. “I bet Cleto would love for you to take him out on a ride or to brush him or to feed him.”

“I’m dressed for any of that.”

“That’s the thing, isn’t it? You can’t take care of Cleto until you care of yourself.” Cleto huffed at Hilda. “But if you’re not able to take care of yourself, it’s okay to ask someone else to help. Dimitri and Anton are unavailable, so I guess that leaves me. Now help me help you help Cleto.” 

Marianne directed her to where she could find a brush and watched as Hilda made long broad strokes along Cleto’s back. Hilda tried braiding Cleto’s hair with some ribbons she had brought with her from Goneril territory. The task proved distracting for Marianne, and by the end of it, her cheeks had dried and her voice no longer trembled.

“Now, Cleto looks fantastic,” Hilda said. “But I get the feeling he’s hungry.”

“Oh, I will go find him a treat,” Marianne said. “I’ll be right back.”

The royal stables housed dozens of horses, most of which were used by knights. This early in the morning, the stableboys were feeding the horses, but with the knights moving out to meet Edelgard, many stalls stood dark and empty. Marianne’s usual cache of sugar cubes was empty, so she went to the farthest end of the stables, where she knew the kitchen staff threw out softening vegetables and bruised fruits.

This part of the stable was quiet. No one had bothered to open the shutters, and a nocturnal darkness seemed to overtake it. Marianne shivered. Cold air pricked the hairs on her arms.

_Ugh! Thud! Crack!_

Followed by

_Rrdg. Rrdg. Rrdg._

As though something was being dragged in short bursts across the hay.

Marianne tripped over her own feet and stumbled to a stop. She listened against for the noise. _It is just rats,_ she told herself. _Just rats going for the refuse._

From the open barrel, she fished out a carrot, still mostly crisp. Cleto would enjoy the greens as much as the carrot itself.

_BANG!_

The slam of a stable door almost made Marianne drop the carrot. She glanced down at the darkening row of stalls. There was no one there. No horses left in this part of the stables. No stableboys handling the tack.

“Hello?” she called down. A patter of indistinguishable noises caught her attention. At this point, she should have returned to Hilda and Cleto, where her mind would not amplify every creak into a horror. But the shadows edged and wiggled, and Marianne almost thought she could see something moving.

“ _Nosferatu_.” Light gushed from her hands and washed over the stall doors. The shadows shrunk away, all but one hulking mass that darted away and ducked beneath the walls. Marianne rushed forward towards the stall and threw the doors opened, swirls of arcane light sparking out around her.

There was no one there.

 _Oh, not me too,_ she thought. _I’m going mad._

She took a step forward. Her foot nudged something solid lying in the hay. Marianne glanced down.

The blue, battered face of a stable boy gaped back at her. Blood leaked from his lips and eyes. Copper hair parted to reveal a gash on the skull.

Marianne screamed. She fell backwards, out of the stall. The spell of light dissipated into hissing ashes. Darkness descended upon her, as did the cold, cold, cold sensation running up her arms. She screamed and screamed until her own face was blue and the stableboys came running, Hilda on their heels.

Marianne pointed towards the stall.

“There’s a dead man,” she cried, “there’s a dead man.”

The boys burst into the stall.

There was nothing there.

* * *

Dedue knelt down along the frame of the stall. His hands rooted up long the wooden door and its hinges. He was searching for any sign of a murder. A single fleck of blood might reveal what Marianne had claimed to see. She hovered behind him, hands clasped tightly.

“I am so sorry,” she said. “Perhaps I made a mistake.”

Dedue stood and opened the door to step inside the stall. They threw the shutters open so that each stall was flooded with daylight. A deep depression formed in the straw, as though something had been dragged through it.

“Come here!” Lysithea called. “Blood in this stall. Look.” They all came running, the whole pack of them—Dedue and Ashe, Felix and the Gautiers, Mercedes and Lorenz, Hilda and Claude and Leonie. Mixed in with fresh straw was a mat of adulterated hay, damp with blood.

Claude whistled. “Looks like a hasty job to try to conceal it.” 

Dedue turned towards Ashe, arms crossed. “You said that you sent knights down here to investigate. Why didn’t they find this?”

Ashe grimaced. “I-I am not sure. I’ll have to interrogate them at once. Besides, we don’t know that this is human blood. It could be from a horse for all we know. We still haven’t found a body.”

Marianne inhaled deeply to stem her tide of guilt. She felt as though she had overreacted. “I really do not think there is any reason for alarm.”

“Marianne, you saw a dead body and you felt magic down there,” Hilda said. “Someone could have used magic to get away.”

“I think that is a little contrived,” Ashe said, crossing his arms. “I believe that everyone is paranoid these days. Let us think rationally.”

Lysithea threw her hands up. “Well, pack it up folks. We’re all just paranoid.”

“Ashe, you seem to be taking this a bit in stride,” Leonie said. “With everything going on, shouldn’t you be a little more concerned?”

“If he’s murdered, so what? It’s just a stableboy,” Ashe said.

Dedue suddenly slammed a fist against the stall, causing everyone to jump. They all turned to look at him.

“My apologies,” he said, turning his head to avoid their gaze. He was frowning deeply, fists both still clenched.

Ingrid in the meantime wandered back down to the other stall. “It seems as though they were killed in one stall and dragged over here, where they just…disappeared?” She nudged the straw with her foot. “Is there something below the straw perhaps?” Ingrid crouched and began clearing out the straw with her hands. More bloodstained straw lay behind, and she pushed even that aside.

Her hands sunk down into mud and manure. Beneath it, she felt something solid. Could just be the foundation of the stables, but her fingers brushed stone. Leonie joined her. They unpacked clods of earth with their hands.

“What are you girls doing?” Sylvain asked.

“Look,” Ingrid said, pointing to a fragment of stone glyph that peeked through the floor. Sylvain dropped down, and soon all three joined in shoveling away the dirt floor.

“I remember these,” Claude said. “Warp pads, like the kind that we found beneath Garreg Mach.”

“Why are there warp pads in the palace?” Felix asked.

“Castle Blaiddyd is old,” Ingrid said. “It could come from the original construction.”

Lysithea crouched down and ran her hands long the grooves of the glyph. “Stand back,” she ordered. The diggers scrambled away, and everyone else gave her wide clearance over the pad. Lysithea activated the pad. Lines of light curled through the groove. She was gone in a second.

“Where do you think she went?” Hilda asked.

“What I want to know is how did we not notice the light?”

“The dirt and straw must have concealed it,” Lorenz said. “Such pads will still work even obstructed. A glyph like this requires a lead shield to block the magical properties.”

A burst of light fanned over the stables, and Lysithea re-manifested on the warp pad.

“The pad teleports just outside of the palace,” Lysithea said. “I did not perceive anyone else on the other side. We must destroy these. And I want a full search of the palace for any others. Unless you think I’m stepping on your toes again, Felix.”

“Whatever,” Felix said. “Now we have to go find a murderer.”

The group began to disperse. Ashe followed Felix and Lysithea as they bickered out of the stables. Hilda slung an arm around Marianne and guided her out. Leonie started slyly convincing Claude to hire her mercenaries.

The Gautiers meanwhile were washing their hands of dirt and manure in a trough. Once her hands were clean, Ingrid looked towards Dedue. A frown marked his usually stoic features. His arms were crossed, as he leaned heavily on a stall frame.

“Everything all right, Dedue?” she asked.

Dedue did not speak at first. It took him a few moments to summon up the words. “Ashe is acting…oddly.”

“Yeah, I think we’ve all noticed,” Sylvain said, wiping his wet hands on his trousers. “What do you think it is?”

“He would not eat my food this morning,” Dedue said. “But I do not think he is ill. And he has been avoiding…” Dedue stopped and tried again, “He has been sleeping elsewhere of late.”

“I heard he made someone call him Lord Gaspard instead of Sir Ashe,” Ingrid said. “Do you think something happened in Gaspard?”

Dedue pushed up from the stall. “I apologize for worrying you. We have more important matters to attend to.”

“Dedue, don’t apologize,” Sylvain said. “It is just as important for you two to—”

“I need to check on Dimitri,” Dedue said. Limberly, he rushed out of the stables. The Gautiers could only watch after him. Something was wrong, and it more than just a portal.

“Well, there’s one thing for certain,” Sylvain said.

“What?”

“We’re definitely sending the kids back to Gautier.”

* * *

 _Mother and Father are here._ Lukas Gloucester stopped in his tracks and listened. If his parents knew what he was doing, they would probably disapprove, and he didn’t want to get suckered into another tea party. Still, his mother always had a fifth sense when he was near. She saw him from across the hall and gestured for him to come over.

“Lukas, there you are,” she said with the sort of strained smile that she only used when she was worried about something. “Your father and I were discussing, and we were wondering…how disappointed would you be if you went back to Gloucester after the anniversary ball?”

Lukas’ face fell. “What? We’re leaving? But you said we’d stayed for the entire festival! The ball is the worst part.” Bunch of stuffy dances and bad food. Lukas had been looking forward to the fortnight of jousts and pantomimes that would follow the ball.

“You are old enough to know what is happening here,” Lorenz said. “Fhirdiad is proving to be an unsafe venue for the anniversary. There are threats against the city, and we believe it would be prudent if you returned home with your brother.”

“Are you two coming?”

“Oh, sweetie, we need to stay here,” Mercedes said. “But we would be home in a few weeks, and then we promise to hold a big celebration to make up for it.”

Lukas sighed. “Ugh, this sucks.”

“Language, Lukas,” Lorenz said.

“I was so excited, and now I have to go back to Gloucester where I don’t have any friends while Theo and Emma stay here.”

“Emma is probably going home to Gautier,” Mercedes said.

“Perhaps we could convince Lysithea to allow Theodore to travel home with you,” Lorenz said. “He could stay in Gloucester for a few weeks in our house.”

The full brunt of what was happening struck Lukas in this moment. His father detested Theo von Ordelia. He constantly called him a bad influence and blamed all Lukas’ problems on him. Lorenz would never invite Theo down to his manor home willingly.

“All right…well, do I have to go now? I’m playing a game with Emma and Theo.” He held forward the makeshift treasure map that Emma Gautier had drawn for him.

Mercedes shook her head. “Go have fun. We’ll talk about it more tonight.”

Lukas struck off of on his own, trying to ignore the pit of disappointment in his belly. This would probably mean that he would have to back to lessons with his tutors. He wouldn’t get a break or to see the fireworks or anything. He would have to make the most of this game.

There were many little secret passageways in the palace. There were probably more than any one person knew. Emma had discovered several of them and had slowly revealed them to the boys. Lukas knew that her treasure was hidden somewhere in the walls. Lukas slipped into a servant’s corridor, where there was a small crawl space that slipped between the walls.

The map was pretty clear that the treasure was somewhere in the walls, and Lukas wanted to find it before Theo did. The crawlspace was so small that he had to wiggle through sideways. He came to a fork and racked his brain about which direction was the right one. He went left and the passageway opened up to a small closet.

Lukas looked around for sign of treasure. It smelt stuffy and moldy up here. There was a small door, the size of a toddler. A small grate gave him a glimpse into the room. Lukas didn’t recognize it—it was like a small storage room, without any furniture or windows. An eerie light flooded through the grate.

“Do you know what happened to Cornelia? Why she met her end?”

This was a woman’s voice. Lukas couldn’t see her. Through the grate, he got glimpses of Uncle Ashe. He kneeled in a penitent position with his head bowed.

“It was because she didn’t know how to play a role,” the woman continued. “Everyone saw through her veneer, and the second she lost her authority, she was dead. We cannot risk that. If people suspect us, we need to divert their attention. If they stop trusting us, we must build that trust back up. We cannot afford to throw away fine bodies like ours, nor can we afford for any more attention drawn to us.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Ashe sounded…frightened? His voice trembled in a way that sounded alien and foreign to Lukas.

“They suspect you, Trophonius. You need to stop acting like yourself and start being this man ‘Ashe.’ Do as Ashe would do. Ashe has a lover, and so now do you. Ashe helps his friends, and so you must help them. Do you understand?”

“I was not meant for this job,” Ashe said. “I was trained to—”

“You know, I wasn’t born a soldier or a mage. My sister and I were actresses, reared up in the great voxhalls of Shambhala. I was thirteen when the second cataclysm struck. You think I wanted to trade my blood and bones so that I could bleed the flesh of sun imps? No, but it is a duty that I took up for the preservation of our people.”

“Well I wasn’t trained to be an actor either,” Ashe said. “My parents were moss harvesters in the lower echelons.”

“The only reason our people have survived is because the sun imps don’t know how deep the caverns run,” the woman said. “Harvesters and husbandmen, masons and vent mechanics, scrappers and playactors. That’s all that survives of our once great civilization. Gone are the scientists and the artificers. Gone are the archmages and the phlebomancers. We have only the lower echelons. But that weakness is our strength, because the lower echelons of our society can infiltrate the lower echelons of their society. We will tear the floor out from underneath these blue-blooded twats.”

“There are some who already suspect our involvement.”

“Yes, but what they won’t suspect is their own people turning against them. Of course, we can’t do that if our agents keep getting swiped. The loss of that woman in the Waterside district was a blow. It seems as though there are eagles circling the docks, looking for a fresh catch. You now have a new job. Your job is to find a way to get Dodona in that does not require the use of warp portals.”

“Why do I have to do that? I thought my job was getting close to the King through that Duscur bear.”

“Because I no longer trust you to do your job well,” the woman said. “If you screw up again, I will have no choice but to throw you to the dogs to better secure my own position. Now, I don’t want to do that, so instead, you will stay out of the way until Dodona arrives.” The woman made a dramatic sigh. “Perhaps I should have asked Menestheos to take this role.”

“You wouldn’t dare! I worked for this. He’s not half the technomancer I am.”

“Then you shall not mess up again.”

“Very well, Pythia. I apologize for my failures.”

Lukas’ heart was pounding. This sounded important, but he wasn’t sure why or how. All he knew was that someone had infiltrated the palace. This man—Ashe but also known as Trophonius—was a phony somehow. He wondered if all the stories about Agarthans were true. His father would probably laugh if he told him that Ashe was a clone, but Lukas could think of no other option.

Ashe stood up with his head still bowed and his hands held prayer-like in repentance. There was a sound like rain puddling on the roof. Cool, black air burst into the closet like smoke. It filled Lukas’ mouth and pushed down into his lungs. Terrified, he screamed.

Ashe turned his head towards the closet door. The woman was gone, swallowed up by clouds of magic.

Lukas scrambled to his feet, his lungs heavy with syrupy miasma. He crawled into the walls again, trying to fit his body into the narrow vent. The door opened, and hands grabbed his sleeve, pulling him out, kicking and writhing.

“Well, well, if it isn’t a baby fawn,” Ashe—no, not Ashe—said. “What are we going to do with you?”

“Please, I won’t tell anyone—”

“Oh, you definitely won’t tell anyone,” Ashe crooned. “In fact, if you don’t want your mommy and daddy to meet their end, you’ll do exactly as I say. Do you understand?”

“Who are you?”

“First question,” the strange man said, “where do these walls lead?”


	8. Rats in the Belfry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ignatz receives a mysterious offer from a strange patron. Corisande confronts Geb with a cryptic warning. Annette and Ferdinand arrive at a dead end and decide to take a diversion. The terminus is revealed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Character death, gore

For all that Ignatz had portended disaster when Seteth moved in, the transition went much smoother than anyone could have anticipated. That wasn’t to say that there weren’t nightly debates between father and daughter about names or schooling or discipline, but the house was still standing and Flayn hadn’t seemed to regret the decision…yet.

“Father does not even wish me to live by my original name,” Flayn complained to Ignatz one day. “And yet he entreats me to give our child a Nabataean name. I even explained that Frida was your mother’s name, but he is being quite insistent on it. How obnoxious.”

Ignatz carefully leaned the canvases on the back of the cart.

“Well, I suppose it is not his decision in the end.”

“That is quite correct,” Flayn said. “But I suppose what I am asking is…how offended would you be if we gave the child the middle name Cináed … but only if it is a boy! And if you do not like it, I shall tell him that you refused, and he cannot argue with that because you are the child’s father and he has no power over you.”

For some reason, this idea gave Ignatz more anxiety than a simple no.

“Cináed is a fine name,” Ignatz said. “A middle name is a good compromise.”

“Are you certain? You are not just saying these things because he frightens you?”

Ignatz laughed nervously. “Of course not. I like the name, and we didn’t have any ideas for a boy’s middle name anyhow.”

Flayn nodded. “Fine. But if it is a girl, we are going with Frida Gabriela, and there is nothing that he can say to convince me otherwise!”

“I hate leaving you alone in the house with him,” Ignatz said. “But I have to get to town. This new patron seems quite serious about hiring me, and this could be very good for us.”

“May I suggest that you take father with you?” Flayn asked. “I will be so much more productive without him bossing me about. Besides, he is an excellent negotiator.”

Ignatz smiled. “If it will help you relax right now.”

The smile quickly disappeared as Ignatz rode with Seteth in the cart towards Derdriu. The two men had extraordinarily little to talk about. Seteth tried asking about the new patron, but Ignatz did not have much information to give. They tried discussing the baby, but Ignatz felt his blood pressure rise, and the conversation quickly ended in a staccato of stumbling syllables.

Ignatz pulled his cart into the wide, tiled bridges of Derdriu. Bright sunlight glimmered off its canals, and the wind swept in strong breezes smelling of salt and fish. Ignatz stopped his cart in front of a white, timber-framed building with darkened windows.

Servants met them at the door and ushered them into a dim-lit parlor. The first thing that struck them was the utter lack of furnishings in the house. Oh, there was an odd table here, and a few sconces there, but overall, the house seemed remarkably bare. 

Seteth ran a finger over the fireplace’s mantel. Dust blackened his finger, and he scowled. “I would expect more for a wealthy patron with a home like this,” he said. Ignatz was setting up the mounts for his canvases.

“Many of these wealthy lords do not live in their residences,” Ignatz said. “They only come in for the fashionable seasons.”

“Still, you would expect them to at least clean the place,” Seteth said.

“Please do not insult them before they arrive,” Ignatz said. “We could use the money.”

Ignatz finished setting up his paintings. He wished that the lighting in the room was stronger to better stage his artwork, but he didn’t think it would be right to complain to someone who might provide him with a stable income.

Vincenzo Adrien was a portly man from old merchant blood. Rings dotted his fingers, displaying his many signets and seals. He wore a drooping chaperon cap made of green velvet and enmeshed with pearls. As he entered the room, he swept his arms wide, like an actor at the theater about to monologue.

“Ah, the artist Victor,” he chimed when he saw Ignatz. “I first admired your paintings in Margrave Edmund’s Cathedral. I objected most strongly when the New Church recommended their removal. I cannot stand all these dour proscriptions against art in the churches. The church ought to be a bastion for all the succor of beauty in the world, do you not agree?”

“Uh, yes sir,” Ignatz said. “I am flattered that you enjoy my work.”

Vincenzo’s rheumy eyes traveled to Seteth. They traveled up and down the length of the man. “And who is this creature?” 

“May I introduce my brother-in-law, Seteth,” Ignatz said. “He was eager to come join us today. I hope you do not mind.”

Vincenzo circled Seteth, studying the man as though he were an art-piece himself. Seteth stiffened. His hands clenched behind his back.

“I believe I recall that name, Seteth,” Vincenzo said. “A former disciple of the Archbishop Rhea, no? The goddess herself has blessed your kin with holy blood, I see. Of course, I was so hoping to meet the subject of your marvelous paintings. Tell me, Victor, is it true that your wife acts as your model? Can any mortal woman truly capture the essence of Saint Cethleann?”

“I like to think so, sir,” Ignatz said. Seteth’s frown deepened. “She is due with child any day now, so she is resting at home. I hope you understand.”

“Ah, yes, so I have heard,” Vincenzo said. “Now tell me, did you ever find a good midwife?”

“Yes, sir. We are very pleased with her.”

“Do tell. Who is it?”

“Are these questions necessary?” Seteth asked. “It seems quite intrusive to ask about my sister's caregivers.” Vincenzo clasped a hand to his heart in fluttering shock.

“I am merely attempting a friendly persiflage. All besides, my daughter is with her first child and seeking an appropriate midwife in Derdriu. Money alone cannot pay for the wisdom of an experienced midwife. I seek only good recommendations from experienced parties.”

Ignatz felt a surge of panic. He did not wish to offend Vincenzo, but he understood Seteth’s paranoia, considering their previous conversations. Of course, what harm could that information do? Good midwives were hard to find, even in Derdriu; the name of potential candidates was narrow, and if someone really wanted to do them harm, there were other ways of finding it.

“We found a woman down in Covington,” Ignatz said. There was a midwife in Covington but they had elected against using her. A small lie to placate both parties.

“A woman down in Covington,” Vincenzo said. “Well, I shall tell my daughter to consider her.”

“Might you, sir, enjoy a viewing of the paintings?” Seteth asked. Ignatz was quickly regretting bringing him along.

“In due course, good man,” the merchant barked. “I have, of course, ruminated upon the triptych of _The Contemplation of the Four Saints_. So blinded was I by its pathetic magnificence that I could barely lift my eyes to consume the full glory of its vision. Nay, sir, I need not further attestation of the artist Victor’s genius. What I am seeking in my virtuoso is a certain compliance.”

“Compliance?” Ignatz asked.

“Aye, I would insist upon your removal to my estate in Edmund territory,” Vincenzo said. “My mind’s eye captures the vision perfectly. Great murals sprawling along my glyptotheque! A folly constructed in the style of an Almyran fire temple adorned with your frescos! Portraits of my daughter and I, painted in masquerade as Cichol and Cethleann themselves.”

This seemed to be Seteth’s breaking point. 

“With all due respect, sir, my sister is not in any condition to remove to Edmund territory,” Seteth said. “Nor will my son-in-law be able to devote the time towards your frivolous projects.”

“Well, certainly we would work something out,” Vincenzo bristled. “Surely, you would not wish for your sister to give birth in some base cottage when she might have the full staff of Chateau Adrien at her disposal.” Vincenzo clapped. One of his servants bent forward, proffering a gilded envelope. “My offer for your services.”

Ignatz opened it. He gasped upon seeing the figures within. “Um, well, I am not sure I know what to say. This is…certainly this is extraordinarily generous,” Ignatz said. Something felt wrong. Perhaps Seteth’s cynicism was leaking or perhaps Ignatz’s modesty had finally overwhelmed him, but something here _was not right_. “But I would have discuss it with my wife, you see. It is very soon to the child’s birth and perhaps if you might wait a few months—”

“No!” Vincenzo boomed. Ignatz flinched. Beside him, Seteth’s face fixed into a stony rictus. “It must happen immediately or not at all.”

“You are not suggesting that we move a woman on the verge of childbirth all the way to Edmund?” Seteth said.

“I would make all the proper arrangements,” Vincenzo said. “She would be perfectly safe within our care.”

Ignatz twisted the envelope in his hands. The offer was generous. Too generous. His whole body felt cold and warm at once. Sweat rolled down the back of his neck.

“I am very sorry, sir, but I will have to refuse then,” Ignatz said. He could barely hear his own words. The figures on the envelope rolled about in his mind, but the doubts began to multiply. “I will have to do what is best for my wife. You understand.”

Vincenzo’s expression darkened. He rolled his jaw as he stared down Ignatz.

“No matter,” he said. “I will merely find another. You may leave.” He waved a jeweled hand at them. Ignatz and Seteth quickly took down the paintings. Vincenzo watched them the whole time. As they began to leave, burdened by the canvases, Vincenzo stuck an arm out to block their exit. “The woman in Covington, you say?” he asked. Ignatz nodded, and suddenly, he was very happy that he had lied. “I shall keep that in mind.”

* * *

“I hope you don’t mind getting wet.”

As Anton said it, he sloshed down into the shallow waters of the cistern that ran beneath the palace. He managed a brief spurt of light—the only magic that his mother had passed onto him.

If Anton had any concerns that Corisande would be too noble to go splashing in the underbelly of the palace, she proved him wrong immediately. She landed indelicately, barely caring that her dress dragged into the water. She wore a servant’s uniform, her distinctive orchid locks stashed under a kerchief.

“How did you arrange this?” she asked.

“Don’t worry about it. Geb was pretty eager to meet with you too.”

Anton had bluntly told Geb that Lysithea’s daughter wished to give him a piece of her mind, because a lie would not have persuaded Geb to go along with it as much as the truth would. As expected, Geb jumped at the opportunity.

“What did you tell your mother?” he asked her.

“That I was tired and wished to go to bed early,” Corisande said. “I don’t cause trouble. That’s why I can get away with it in times like this.”

“You cause all sorts of trouble,” Anton said. There wasn’t a tongue in the palace that hadn’t wagged at Corisande’s odd behavior. “You have quite the reputation you know.” Corisande shrugged.

Anton fumbled with the iron latch on the gate, where the waters spilled out into the city drains. “Here we go. Hold on, I need to change.” He pulled out his clothing from the loose stone in the wall. Corisande waited with her back turned, impatiently tapping her foot.

They passed into the now crowded streets of Fhirdiad. The castle lay behind them, shadowed in the sinking light of dusk.

“That was a very good path you showed me,” Corisande said. “I shall keep it in mind.”

“Thinking of escaping again?”

“If I thought I could, I would.”

“Must suck to be the spymaster’s daughter,” Anton said. “Not much chance to get away for a little fun, eh?”

“You have no idea.”

They crossed the bridge to Tailorsgate. Corisande began worrying at the hem of her sleeves.

“Look, that’s the alley there,” Anton said. “I’ll stick around. You’ll be fine. He’s a good guy. He doesn’t resort to violence. He’s just a little passionate about hating your mother.” Corisande laughed at this. It surprised Anton. He thought she might respond with one of her strange scowls or a petulant comeback.

“You can leave,” Corisande said, as they broached the mouth of the alley.

“I really do not think that’s a good idea.”

Anton saw the blaze of Geb’s signature cigarillo in the dark. Corisande suddenly stopped short. She was gripping her sleeves now so tightly that Anton worried they might rip.

“We can go back now if you’d like.”

Geb stepped out of the shadows. He said nothing either. The two just stared at each other for a long minute.

“Well, if it isn’t the Queen of the Goblins,” Geb said. “You look pale. What are they feeding you?”

“I am here to tell you,” Corisande’s voice shook, “that you should give up whatever stupid reason you are here for and to go back to wherever it is you came from.”

“Mmm…. _no_.”

“You will not get away with it,” she continued. “The Spymaster has eyes everywhere.”

“Well, the spymaster isn’t onto me yet,” Geb said. “And I’m not afraid of her.”

Corisande glanced behind at Anton. Her jaw clenched and unclenched. She didn’t want him here, he realized. It felt very much like he was intruding. 

“Look, I brought you a little present, Cora,” Geb said. He produced from his pocket a small, scrivened box. Anton remembered it as the puzzle box his father had sent him in the mail. Corisande reached for it. Instinctually, her hands turned the box along its grooves.

“What’s inside?” she asked.

“You have to solve it to find out.”

Corisande’s hands went white as she clutched the box in both hands. “Why are you here?”

“To catch a rat.”

Corisande twisted the fringe of her sleeve, and the fabric finally tore. “In that case,” she quavered, “you should know that there are rats in the belfry. They’ve come up from the cellar. They’ve chewed through the bell pulls, so when all is dark and the enemy is upon you, and you try to call for help, you have nothing but silence intruding upon you.”

Anton rolled his eyes. _Corisande could give father a run for his money._ Geb puffed on the cigarillo. The smoke hazed his eyes.

“There are rats in the throne room,” she said. “There are rats in the storeroom. There are rats in the servant’s corridors.”

“Where aren’t there rats?” Geb asked.

Corisande’s eyes flicked towards Anton. “Rats cannot swim in the dark.”

“Right,” Geb said. “Thanks for that.”

Corisande turned sharply on her heel. She went back to Anton. “I am ready to leave,” she said. “There is nothing more I can say.” She plunged herself back into the ground, still working, working at those sleeves.

Geb approached Danny and saluted. “Thank you, Danny,” he said, his voice full of strange emotion. “You’re a good friend.”

“Really? Did you make heads or tails out of what that girl was saying?”

Geb smiled and ruffled his hair. “Of course not. She’s mad. It would make a very handsome pamphlet. I won’t even bother asking how you know her.”

“Good. I’d prefer it that way. I won’t ask what was in the box.”

Geb grinned. “She’ll figure it. She seems pretty smart, eh?” He winked and patted Anton on the back. “Now you better take her back. Can’t have her disappearing yet, can we?”

* * *

Last night, Ferdinand seen the stretch of an army on the distant horizon, and this morning, it was gone. The empty plains—so flat and far that you could see everything within miles—were devoid of life.

“How does an army just disappear?” Annette asked. “Did they move past us in the night?”

“I would be shocked if that were the case,” Ferdinand said. “Armies cannot move that quickly.”

They had ridden out to where they had seen the army just the previous night. Ferdinand expected to see signs of encampment. Snuffed fires, perhaps, or disturbed soil from tent poles and boots. The grass stood high—no one had seemed to camp here.

“They were trying to draw the army away from Fhirdiad,” Ferdinand said. “And it worked. Edelgard was never here.”

“Which means that they must be closer to Fhirdiad.”

“Or coming to attack from a different angle,” Ferdinand said. “But if they are not, then where is the army? You saw them before with your own eyes, did you not?"

"I did!" Annette said. "They were real enough then. But this...I want to say it is an illusion. I sense some magic but nothing strong enough for a illusion of that order.” She dismounted from her horse. She passed through the tall grass, humming as she parted stalks with her hands. Ferdinand surveyed the plains from his horse.

“Ow!” Annette cried. Ferdinand nearly fell off his horse in his rush to help her. “I’m fine. I just tripped on this…thing.” Ferdinand crouched in the grass beside her.

A heavy metal plate lay snuggly in the mud. Small apertures dotted its surface, each rounded with a glass dome. A faint white glow blinked from its crevices. Ferdinand recognized the black crucible steel with its distinctive metallic mottling.

“Agarthan steel,” he said.

“This confirms it,” Annette said. “That they’ve returned. What do you think it is?”

“Something responsible for the illusion,” Ferdinand said. “We’ll send it to Fhirdiad for testing.”

“There may be more in the fields.”

Ferdinand nodded. He barked to his soldiers to carry off the plate and to search for more. His mind was aflame. He had never taken the Agarthan conjecture seriously. But there was no mistaking the origin of this material. Either they had failed to root out the Agarthans twenty-five years ago or someone was making use of technology.

In any case that meant someone had access to Agarthan technology. And if they had access to Agarthan technology, perhaps they also had access to Agarthan tunnels or Agarthan catacombs. The idea frightened him. Under his feet could be a labyrinthine complex that burrowed all the way to Fhirdiad for all he knew. There was no way of telling what might happened or where they might go or how many there might be.

The problem was worse than they ever suspected. 

“This Edelgard must be an imposter,” Ferdinand said.

“It is possible that this still is the real Edelgard,” Annette said. “She worked with the Agarthans before. She may work with them again.”

“Not willingly, she didn’t,” Ferdinand said. His mind reeled back to his conversation with Claude.

_“If this is the real Edelgard, then I suppose it won’t matter, but if it is an imposter—”_

_“Then we will have to find the real Edelgard and force her to help us.”_

But Ferdinand only had one hint of where the real Edelgard was—a mere glimpse, a hunch really. Claude thought that Linhardt was the right avenue, and maybe he was.

Geb’s voice taunted him. _“Investigate my mother’s death, and I’ll tell you.”_

“Annette, how far we from the Rhodos coast?” Ferdinand asked.

Annette bit her lip. “Depends. A day or two if we start now. Why?”

“We’ll send the army back to Fhirdiad with the plates,” Ferdinand said. “But I have something else I need to investigate. Are you willing to assist me?”

“What is it?”

_“Look, Aegir, I could tell you what I know, but you wouldn’t believe me,” Geb said. “This is the sort of thing you’ve got to find out on your own.”_

He thought about the strange tall cousin with the bright green eyes. He thought of the poison used to drug Liesl and the revelation of Geb’s crest. Something was going on here, and he only had one lead.

“We’re going to go investigate a death.” 

* * *

When Dimitri finally woke, he wasn’t quite sure where he was or what had happened. The return of Edelgard’s army felt like a dream. A heavy presence lingered in the room. Muffled voices sparked deep pangs of fear that his demons had returned to haunt him. Seconds passed before Dimitri realized that the voices were very much real. 

Ashe and Dedue were arguing. Dimitri could not remember the last time he saw the two fight. Dimitri knew that Dedue would often suffer in silence if anything bothered him, and Ashe’s modus operandi was to fix everything with cheerful overcompensation. To see them engaged in verbal spars—Dimitri’s concern deepened. 

“What happened in Gaspard?” Dedue asked. “You are not the same.”

“I could say the same about you,” Ashe taunted. “I thought men of Duscur were supposed to take things in stride, but you seem desperate to end things.”

“I do not wish to end anything!” Dedue was unusually livid. He failed to even notice Dimitri’s presence. “But you have changed, and I cannot trust you if you will continue to act like this.”

Ashe looked at Dimtri with those clear green eyes and delivered a smile so slick it made Dimitri wince.

“Your majesty, I apologize that you must see us bicker like this,” Ashe said. “I worry about Dedue’s mental stress. As you can see, he is unusually burdened. Perhaps he would benefit from a break from his official duties as well.”

“Leave us, Ashe,” Dimitri snarled. Ashe’s eyes widened in surprise.

“Very well, your majesty.” He bowed and left the room.

“Dedue, what was that all about?”

“My first concern is your wellbeing. How do you feel?”

Dimitri groaned and rubbed his temples. “How long have I been asleep?”

“Over a day sir.”

Dimitri seized in alarm. A whole day? He thought he might have just slept in a few hours. “What happened? Is Edelgard here? I need to go—”

“Ferdinand and Annette went to meet with Edelgard in the Tailtean Plains,” Dedue said. “You needed rest.”

Dimitri groaned. It was hard to argue with Dedue. His headaches were gone, and he felt a clarity that hadn’t visited him in weeks. The fog had lifted from his eyes, but…

“I wanted to be there,” Dimitri said.

“This is for the best,” Dedue said. “There have been other problems.” In his typically curt way, Dedue explained both the dead body and the warp pad found in the stables.

“Oh poor Marianne…” Dimitri had failed her. He slammed his back against the wall with a heavy sigh. “Where is she?”

“Hilda insisted that she stay with her,” Dedue said. “Dimitri, may I…I have another concern.” Dedue’s voice faltered. Dimitri turned towards his brother in arms. “It is Ashe. He is…not right.”

“What is wrong?”

“Ever since he has returned from Gaspard, he is acting different,” Dedue said. “I almost cannot believe that it is him.”

“What are you saying?”

“I do not know. I do not wish to make outlandish accusations…but I fear that some great possession has taken hold of him.”

“Possession? You believe this of magical origin?”

“I am neither mage nor scholar,” Dedue said. “I am unfamiliar with how such a thing may have happened. I have heard of people changing personalities due to head wounds or of encountering malevolent spirits.”

 _Malevolent spirits._ Ghosts did not exist. Dimitri swallowed hard.

Dimitri held a hand up. “Dedue, please try not to work yourself up on the matter. Perhaps he has some insight into the matter. In the meantime, you are welcome, as always, to sleep at the palace.”

Dedue’s face softened. “Thank you, brother.”

“In the meantime, perhaps we ought to consult Claude,” Dimitri said. “I understand he is quite busy himself at the moment, but perhaps he has insight that could be helpful in this situation.”

“It is not urgent,” Dedue said. “I understand that there are far more important matters.”

“If it is urgent to you—”

“Please, brother,” Dedue said. “I did not mean to cause further alarm. You should probably go see Marianne now.”

Dimitri nodded. “Will you take me to her?”

Together, Dimitri and Dedue traveled through the royal chambers, coming out into the corridors to find wherever Hilda had led Marianne. Just as they approach the old queen’s quarters, however, Dimitri stopped short. He put a hand to block Dedue. The door of Patricia’s chambers hung slightly ajar. He heard hushed voices inside. 

“One moment,” he whispered to Dedue.

Dimitri paused and listened. It was the voices of the Ordelia children. Through the crack in the door, Dimitri could see them sitting on the bed. They were both studying something in Corisande’s lap—a book maybe or a sheet of paper.

“She looks different,” Theo said.

“Well, yes, she was young here.” Cora’s voice sounded distinctly different: softer and lighter.

“Do you know what they’re saying about her?”

“She would _never_ ,” Cora hissed. “Remember how nice she always was to us.”

“Mumma never liked her.”

“Yes, but they never took that out on us kids,” Cora said.

“Cora, what if they were right,” Theo said. “What if our parents lied to us growing up. It seems that—”

“No, don’t you dare,” Cora said. “These people are not your friends, Theo. Not the Gloucesters. Not the Gautiers. Not even the Riegans and the Blaiddyds. If you think these people are so great, go on. Tell them everything. See what they’ll do. They’ll use you to find dad, and then they’ll kill us all.”

The siblings were quiet for a moment. Theo traced an outline on the book.

“She looks like Little Dori,” he said wistfully.

“Yes, and that’s why we can never tell,” Cora said. “Can you imagine what the Mad King would do to Dori?”

“Her parents would never let that happen.”

“They would be dead too.”

Dedue tapped Dimitri’s shoulder. “Your majesty, what is this?”

Cora heard the voice, and her head snapped towards the door. Dimitri pulled Dedue behind a corner in the hallway. Cora stuck her head out, and seeing the hallway clear, she ushered Theo out of the room. They both quickly disappeared down the other end of the hall.

“Those children are very strange,” Dimitri said. A strange encounter indeed. Why didn’t Lysithea’s children trust them? Lysithea herself always had a prickly exterior, but she never expressed such extreme suspicions of her former classmates.

Dimitri entered Patricia’s old room. The Ordelia children had discovered the hidden closet somehow. The trunk stood open. On the bed was the old folio of prints, which must have been the object that they were discussing.

On the page was the portrait of a young Edelgard von Hresvelg.

* * *

Annette sat in the chair in the mayor’s office. She had never heard of this town before—some rustic farming village off the beaten path. “What are we doing here, Ferdinand?”

“I understand this may sound inane,” Ferdinand said, “but I must attempt to make sense of what little information I have.”

“I mean, I get most of it. You think this boy has a connection to Linhardt, and you think Linhardt can take us to Edelgard,” Annette said. “I got that. But what is the connection between Linhardt and Edelgard?”

“It is not the boy who I think has a connection to Edelgard,” Ferdinand said. “It’s his cousin. She looks just like—"

The door opened, and they both stood up to greet the old man that toddled in.

“Lord Aegir, Professor Dominic,” he greeted. “I am most honored that you have come upon our little slice of the world. My name is Stein. I am only magistrate for most of the unincorporated hamlets in the area.” Ferdinand and Annette both stood to shake his hand. “I admit I am a bit confused as why you have come. I understand that you are inquiring after the Breslin case.”

“Yes, sir,” Ferdinand said. “I met young Gebhardt Breslin in Fhirdiad, and he asked me to investigate his mother’s death.”

“Well, I am afraid there is not much to investigate,” Stein said. “You see, Mrs. Breslin and her children were killed by bandits who invaded their homestead. I understand that the answer never sat well with the father and son, but there is no other explanation for it.”

“Is there any evidence that we can see regarding the case?” Ferdinand asked.

“Well, their house has been untouched since the incident, but I am not sure what you will find there,” Stein said. “I am afraid it is in quite poor condition. After they died, Mr. Breslin and his son left only two days later.”

“Take us there,” Ferdinand said. “If you would.”

Ivy strangled the walls of the old house. Shingles had fallen into dust from the roof. The door—peeled from his hinges—rested in a tangle of overgrown grass. Country superstitions held that the house was touched by bad luck now. No one would wish to live here.

Inside, remnants of a lost life cluttered the house. Ferdinand stepped around cracked ceramics, moldering books, and crystal-like shards of glass. A child’s sampler hung from the wall. Someone had brought down the family’s clothing and piled it out along the settee. Ferdinand pawed through it idly: a girl’s white dress, a small pair of breeches, a purple scarf. Annette picked up a carpet bag, stuffed with other garments.

“It looks as if they were getting ready to leave,” she said.

The mayor nodded. “Part of the tragedy of the thing. They were about to move back down south, to join Mr. Breslin’s family in Adrestia. Had they left a day sooner…” His shoulders dropped with a sigh.

Ferdinand chewed his lip. “I was told that decision was only made after the mother’s death.”

Stein shook his head. “No, no, I remember it distinctly. It why Mr. Breslin had left the house. He and Geb were up to hire a coach that would take them down south. I told him to wait a few days and ride the mail coach out, but he insisted that they couldn’t wait. So he and Geb walked all the way over to Dreckshold and stayed the night. That’s all it took.”

“They were running from something,” Annette said.

Stein shrugged. “I never could figure them out.”

Ferdinand shivered. Perhaps the country folk were right. Perhaps this house bred bad fortune.

Stein gestured towards the staircase. “Would you like to poke around the upstairs?” Ferdinand nodded, feeling suddenly very itchy all over. There was something here, lurking in the house, a spectral force that he could almost hear. The answers were here.

Annette remained downstairs. After unpacking the carpet bags, she wandered into the kitchen. A sadness clung to this room. She could not help but shiver. Her eyes wandered down to the floor. A large stain blackened the floor. _Someone died here._

Gingerly, she tiptoed around the stain. The back door hung open. It led to an overgrown path that disappeared into the trees. Annette stepped outside and breathed in the air. If bandits came, they probably came from the woods. So she wandered out in that direction.

Meanwhile, Ferdinand interrogated Stein as they climbed the staircase.

“When did you meet the doctors?” Ferdinand asked. Every creak on the stair made him wince and wonder if it would cave in.

“Well, I met the husband first,” Stein said. “His wife followed up with the baby a few months later. I think he wanted to have everything settled before he sent for her from Leicester.”

“How strange. Geb stated that he was born in Faerghus.”

“Well, he may believe that,” Stein said, but Ferdinand wasn’t so sure. “I seem to recall there was some drama about their child’s birth. Lis once explained that they wanted somewhere reclusive where they wouldn’t be bothered. It almost seemed to me like they were afraid that someone would find them. I always assumed that they came from money; families like that can be pretty scary when the inheritance doesn’t go right.”

Ferdinand wandered into what was clearly the boys’ room. There were two beds, unmade after all these years. Paper ships were still tacked to the wall. Tin soldiers neatly lined up beside the younger boy’s bed. Next to Geb’s bed stacked a collection of texts. Ferdinand skimmed the titles. _Advanced Solar Regeneration Techniques. An Interrogation of the Components of Glyph Scrivening. Elements of Reason._ Hardly the basic healing arts that Anton claimed Geb had.

“Geb never spoke of siblings,” Ferdinand said. “Why is that?”

“Impossible for me to say,” Stein said. “Of course, we never found the bodies of the children, but they were most certainly killed. Bandits rarely just kidnap children. Mr. Breslin was distraught. He insisted that the children had to be alive, but then they just left without trying to find them.”

Ferdinand nodded glumly. “What about their extended family? Did you ever meet them?”

“Mr. Breslin had a brother in Adrestia who occasionally wrote, but I know that they didn’t get along. Some old grudge between their wives. And a sister. Bea I think is what they called her. Very strange woman.”

“How so?”

“She had a very penetrating stare. Like she had met you somewhere before. She would visit from time to time. The Breslins always seemed so aggravated when she came about. I remember Lindon coming up to me and saying once that if he thought he could escape her, he would, but it was too much effort and she would just find them again anyways.”

“I must ask what will seem like a very strange question, Mayor Stein, but please amuse me,” Ferdinand said. “Did you ever perceive any evidence that the doctors or their children had crests?”

Stein was taken aback by the question. “Well, to be honest, I’m not sure I would recognize a crest if I saw one.”

Ferdinand hummed and nodded as he wandered into the next bedroom. This one was clearly made for a girl: lace curtains, porcelains dolls, art supplies. A sewing needle pinned an old sketch to the wall. A family portrait, it seemed, of the cousins. There was a drawing of Geb with his name over it, and next to him Selma, her distinctive eyes colored in with a lime pencil. They looked younger here. Next to them was a boy named Hassan—the Almyran cousin perhaps. But there were more cousins—a girl with two purple dots with eyes with the name “Little Dori” and…

Ferdinand’s heart stopped, but then he shook away the feeling.

It was a coincidence. There was another boy in the picture. His name was Theo, but it was a coincidence because this boy had the same green hair that colored Geb’s portrait, not the white hair of Lysithea’s child. Ferdinand turned away shaking. From the nightstand, he picked up a sketchbook, and there scrawled on the cover was something that could not be a coincidence:

_Cora’s Art Book (Don’t look Geb!)_

“Mayor Stein,” Ferdinand said. “The girl’s name…was it, by any chance, Corisande?”

“Ah, yes, that was it. But everyone called her Cora.”

The words slurred to a mush. Ferdinand found himself struggling for breath. What in the world was Lysithea von Ordelia doing with the two younger siblings of Gebhardt Breslin, the presumed offspring of Linhardt von Hevring? Geb had accused her of murdering his mother but not kidnapping his siblings. As the wheels began to turn, suddenly he heard a scream from below: distant and beyond the house. He went to the window to see Annette racing out from the trees.

“Ferdinand!” Annette’s voice carried up the stairs as she rushed into the house. “Ferdinand, you need to see this.”

“What is it?”

“I think I found the grave of the mother.”

“Very well. I will come see after—”

“No, you must see this now!”

Ferdinand dropped the sketchbook. He skipped down the stairs three at a time, raced through the kitchen, out the back door, into a grove of trees that fanned the fringes of a lake. Annette pushed back stalks of reeds to reveal a small mound overgrown with grass. Moss greened a small handmade gravestone—nothing more than paint on a rock, something hastily made before father and son disappeared forever.

And on it, it bore the name

LYSITHEA.

* * *

Fhirdiad waited in the distance. Windows of light punctuated its dark towers and rooftops in the deepening gloom of night. The great chimneys of the manufactories spewed columns of smoke that muddled the stars. Castle Blaiddyd loomed at the apex, a shard of light crowning the city.

“Ooh, and have you ever eaten real Gautier Cheese gratin? Like with actual Gautier Cheese?” Raphael’s belly made an audible noise. “Or all you can eat sweet potato fritters?”

“You’re making me hungry,” Hassan laughed.

“Do you think we’ll make it there tonight?” Amina asked.

“Sure, if we push,” Raphael said. “You eager to get in a real bed there, Amina?”

“I cannot wait,” Amina said. “Or to see Dad. I think I might be ready to talk.”

“You should come with us, Hassan,” Raphael said. “We could probably get you a bed in the palace.”

“Oh, no,” Hassan said meekly. “I really shouldn’t. I’ve got a place to crash with my cousins. Besides, I’m not fancy enough to hole up with the nobility. I don’t even got any papers, remember?”

“So that’s it? You’re just going to leave us then?” Amina asked.

“I guess so,” Hassan said. “Really appreciate you guys bringing me out and vouching for me, but I really don’t think I belong in your world. And you probably got friends and family to catch up with. But if you’re ever down in Waterside, I could show you around.”

“Have you been to Fhirdiad before?” Amina asked.

“Once,” Hassan said. “Several months ago. How about you? You cavort with the king a lot?”

Amina scowled. Ever since Hassan had discovered she was a von Riegan, he treated her differently. She couldn’t quite put her thumb on it. Sometimes, he overregarded her with veneration; sometimes, he kept his distance entirely; other times, he almost seemed…resentful?

“I’ve met him if that’s what you mean,” Amina said.

“Probably not a big deal for you,” Hassan said. “Your dad is a king after all. Of two nations. Gee, should I be calling you princess?” The way he said it, it sounded like a taunt more than a sincere question.

“Only of one,” Amina said testily. “Sovereign Duke is different.”

“Right,” Hassan said with a scoffing laugh.

“Don’t worry. I’ll make sure not bother since you’re so eager to leave us,” Amina snapped. “Almyrans are good at forgetting. You wouldn’t know, I guess.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Hassan snapped.

“The rite of obsolescence, which you would know if you were Almyran,” Amina said. “When someone has done something terrible, the whole community gets together and refuses to ever regard them again. Nobody speaks their name, and they’re removed from the records. All images are destroyed. They’re not allowed to be buried at the family cemetery. They’re just…forgotten. It’s considered a curse.”

“Yeah, well, I guess it’s a good thing that my Almyran family forgot me then,” Hassan said. “Can’t be doubly cursed, can you?”

“You’re so weird,” Amina said. “And to think, I thought we could be friends.”

Raphael coughed nervously. “Hey now, you two. It’s natural to get a bit snippy after traveling on the road like that, but there’s no need for hostilities. We are all still friends.”

Amina crossed her arms. The sooner they reached Fhirdiad, the better. This whole trip was a mistake, an experiment gone wrong. She learned nothing from it but that she was and always would be alone. No one else in the world could ever understand her experience.

The wagon creaked along the road. The higher the moon rose, the thinner the traffic became. They passed a few camps of pilgrims and an inn busting from the hinges with people. But suddenly, the road turned starkly quiet. A fog began to roll in over the ground.

“Hassan, tell us about your family,” Raphael said. “You must be happy to get to them.”

“Not much to say,” Hassan said. “My cousins have lived in Fhirdiad for about eight months now.”

“Are they—”

_Crack!_

The wagon suddenly tilted to the right as an axel snapped off the wheel. Amina clenched the sides of the wagon to keep from spilling out. Raphael pulled back the reins on his horses, and they scraped to a stop.

Hassan hopped out immediately. As he went to inspect the axel, his whole body tensed and froze, staring down at his feet. Silver fog interwove his legs.

“Shit!” he said. He went back to the wagon and rummaged through his belongings to pull out his sword. Amina had only ever seen it casually tossed onto the back of the wagon, but now he unsheathed it and stared out into the darkness.

“What is wrong?” Amina asked him.

Raphael climbed out after him. He kicked around the broken axel. “Ooh, that’s a clean cut,” he said with deep consternation. Amina could not help but feel a little worried. Perhaps she should have brought a weapon.

Hassan still faced the darkness as if he saw something. Amina squinted, but she could not perceive anything except the fog. Suddenly, a tall dark form, shrouded in a hood and mask, emerged. Judging by the glyph of magic juggled in one hand, they were a mage.

“Well, well, look who got away from his mommy,” sneered the mage.

“How long have you followed us?”

“Since you walked through our checkpoint,” the mage returned. “Traipsing around with old heroes and nobility, eh?” Amina sunk down into the back of the wagon, trying to conceal herself while she patted through their belongings for a weapon of any kind.

“Who are you?” Raphael bellowed. He slammed his fists together threateningly. The mage laughed.

“If you know what is good for you, you will turn this boy over to us without a fuss,” the mage said. “In fact, give us the boy, and we’ll fix your wagon for you and send you on your way. No harm done.”

“Not going to happen,” Raphael said. “What do you want with him?”

“Raph, take the girl and leave,” Hassan said. “This is my business.”

“Look, does the boy owe you money? I’ll—”

“Enough,” the mage said, followed by a whisper of magic. Raphael reached for his throat as his voice disappeared. Hassan braced himself for battle. The man lashed out a strike of magic, and Hassan dodged. His sword slashed through the mage’s robes, but the mage disappeared in a puddle of darkness and reformed a few steps to the left.

Amina continued searching for something to fight with. Pulling open Hassan’s pack, she was shocked to find an array of deadly objects—a dagger, several vials of poison, a set of gauntlets, a few darts.

“Raphael, catch,” she called, tossing him the gauntlets. For herself, she took the dagger. She dumped a vial of poison over the blade, a rushed coating that she prayed would work.

Amina leapt out of the cart. Hassan panted heavily in exertion as he continued to swipe at the mage, but his sword cut through empty air. Raphael fumbled to shove the too-small gauntlets over his knuckles. Finally, he gave up. He just held them in one hand before charging with a howl towards the strange mage.

Amina felt useless and small with her dagger. She pressed her back against the wagon. Suddenly, another hooded figure manifested from the darkness. This one lurched towards her, sparkling with arcane energy. Amina ducked as the spell arced over her head. Light on her feet, she swung upwards with her dagger, stabbing them between their ribs. Poison struck flesh like hot acid; the mage howled in pain. As the strange assailant writhed to the ground, Amina sliced their neck.

Wet drops struck Amina’s face. She wiped them off, thinking they were blood but finding only water. She looked up to the sky just as the drizzle turned into a violent downpour.

“No!” the living mage cried. “You fool! If you had gone with us quietly, we could have prevented another break.”

Hassan tackled him but missed again as the mage vaporized to stand behind him. “Quietly, eh? You certainly don’t know me, do you?”

 _Smack!_ Amina looked up just as Raphael slapped the mage across the face with one gauntlet. The strike surprised the mage, and he staggered backwards. This let Hassan charge forward with his sword, making a clean cut across the neck. The mage fell to the ground. He shuddered for a minute, then went still.

“Are there more?” Raphael asked. His voice was raw after the silence spell and faded.

“Just the two of them,” Amina said, gesturing to the one that she had killed. “Who were they, Hassan?”

“Give me that,” Hassan said, reaching for the dagger. Amina gave it to him. To her surprise, he rolled the dead mage over on his back. With one hand, he tore open their cloak. The skin of the mage was so white, it almost glowed. Hassan dug the dagger into the mage’s chest and slid it open. Grasping inside, he tore the ribcage apart in a flash of brute strength.

Amina felt nauseous. She turned to retch but nothing came up. When she looked over again, Hassan was reaching into the chest cavity. He pulled out the mage’s heart. A flash of lightning illuminated the gristly scene. Amina saw a crest burned into the mage’s heart. She threw up again, and this time, her dinner regurgitated.

“What in the abyss boy?” Raphael asked. “Those are—”

Hassan sliced the crest clean from the organ. He then tossed the heart over his shoulder and moved to the next mage.

“Look, I really appreciate you taking me this far,” Hassan said. “But I put you both in danger, and for that, I am sorry. I have to leave you now. Don’t look for me. Please.” He cut open the mage’s heart again and pulled out another crest.

“I don’t know what kind of trouble you have gotten yourself in,” Raphael said. “But those crests only mean one thing.”

“Yeah, I know what they mean,” Hassan said.

“How have you gotten yourself mixed up with Agarthans?”

“Agarthans?” Amina shrieked.

Hassan wiped the crest clean on his shirt and slipped them into his pocket. “I have to go now. Thank you for everything.”

Raphael stepped forward. “I think I need you to come with me, buddy,” he said. Never had Amina seen Uncle Raphael as threatening. He was a giant teddy bear—a softie with a heart of gold buried underneath a mountain of muscle. But now Raphael bore the composure of a growling bear. All of his height and all of his muscle staggered in an imposing display of strength. 

“You don’t want to do this, Raphael,” Hassan said. He dropped his sword and raised his hands in surrender. “I don’t want to hurt you. I went easy on those folks because I want to start this.” He gestured up to the skies. The rain continued in a deluge. 

“Hassan, I don’t believe you’re a bad guy, but those are bad people who could do a lot of harm—”

“I’m not going with you.”

“Then I’ll have to take you by force.”

“Fine. If you’re going to fight me, then fight me.”

Raphael barreled forward. With a preternatural speed, Hassan ducked from under Raphael’s grasp and rammed his elbow into the older man’s ribs. Raphael clenched his teeth, but he otherwise did not flinch. Hassan flung himself towards the wagon to grab his belongings, but Raphael tore him back. Hassan had dropped his sword and could only raise his fists at Raphael.

Amina knew this boy was strange, but was he dumb as well? Did he really think he could knock out Raphael in fisticuffs?

Hassan landed a punch on Raphael’s cheek. Raphael just chuckled and swung his fists, only for Hassan to block them with his forearms raised.

Amina decided to act. She reached for the discarded sword and waited for her moment. Hassan and Raphael locked in each other’s grasp and wrestled to no effect. Finally, like rutting rams batting antlers, they broke apart forcefully. Hassan staggered backwards, his back turned to Amina. This was her chance. She sprung on him, elbow around his shoulders, blade to his throat.

“Don’t do this, Amina,” Hassan said. “Let’s not do this again.”

“Do what again?”

“You really don’t remember do you? I guess Almyrans really are good at forgetting.”

“Stop it! What are you—”

She saw a flash of a sigil—barely a sizzle of a hot second in the darkness—before her lungs constricted and the sensation of water invaded her nose and ears. Amina released Hassan, choking for air. She collapsed to her knees. Flashes of that fateful day returned to her. Green light breaking through the water’s surface. The scrape of the riverbed against her feet. Her mother’s arms reaching for her through the depths…

A second later, the sensation faded. Air returned to her lungs in violent gulps. She could see and hear again. Hassan stared down her, mouth fixed in horror.

“I’m sorry,” and it sounded genuine, but Amina still wanted to scream and cry and hit him.

“Who are you?” Amina screeched.

Hassan looked at her again with those strange blue eyes—like from a dream of another life. Eyes that Amina now swore that she had seen before.

“I am the end.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A, I don't know who you are, but you're prescient. Congrats; you win the prize. I'm pretty sure you had this all guessed in your first comment haha.


	9. The Crest of Storms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As terminal rains fall upon Fhirdiad, unrest broils in the Waterside district. The cousins reunite and reflect on their unusual upbringing. Amina's reunion with Claude instigates revelations about Byleth's disappearance. Ashe and Jeritza find a way into the city, but where there’s a way in, there’s a way out, and Ashe’s doppelganger also has plans for the catacombs.

In the early hours of the morning, as the rain heaved down from the skies, fires sprouted in the Waterside District. Huge conflagrations spiked from barrels of oiled timber set aflame on the wharf. Felix suspected that a magical origin, if for no other reason than the fact that they seemingly ignored the downpour gushing from the skies or the faint blue glow that limned each lick of flame.

This was not an attack but a warning. There was no way that the sailors and teamsters in the wharf could imbue such arcane fires.

As Felix searched the wharf with his soldiers, dissidents scattered through the streets like rats from a burning building. Scarfs concealed their faces, and several wore hoods pulled deep over their eyes.

In the last several weeks, the malcontents in the Waterside had grown bolder. Graffiti praising Edelgard smeared over walls and the hulls of ships. Black flags with the Adrestian eagle popped up in windows, doorways, and flagpoles. There were even a few effigies—some of Dimitri, some of Ferdinand von Aegir, and at least one that seemed to resemble Felix. He took that as a sign that his efforts to clear out Waterside were somewhat effective.

“You would think we were in Adrestia,” Arabella Fraldarius commented dryly, “the way that they drape themselves in red and black.” She picked up a scrap of a burned flag with the Crest of Flames on it—a sign of the Triumvirate and the New Church.

“What idiots,” Glenn agreed. “You’re far too lenient with them father. Anyone found supporting these losers should never be allowed to see the sun again.”

Felix sighed. “Enough,” he told the twins. “We’re trying to prevent a revolt here. If we put the whole district under arrest, we’d have an even worse problem—"

Suddenly, Arabella screamed—“Father! Watch out!”

An arrow grazed his shoulder, striking the earth with a _crack!_ Felix heard the twang of a bow drawing back again. Instinctually, he unsheathed his sword, searching the rooftops for the assassin. As the next bolt hurled through the air, Felix darted to the side. One of his guards hurtled to brace in front him, raising a shield to block a volley of arrows.

“There’s more than one!” Felix cried. He tried to see where the twins had disappeared, but the the barrels suddenly extinguished themselves, and a smoky haze obstructed his vision. Another set of arrows rained from the rooftops, and Felix heard the grunt and crash of his soldiers falling.

Cursing internally, Felix dashed for a nearby alleyway, out of the gaze of the streets. The corridor was dark, but the smoke was not as thick here, and it allowed Felix a moment to clear his head. The guards were all running towards one direction, and Felix scanned the eaves for any sign of movement.

What he saw made him groan. Glenn was somehow wrangling up the side of the building, using a cut clothesline as a grappling tether. An arrow narrowly missed his back. Felix grit his teeth. _The boy better not die because of this._

A giggle echoed from the dark yawn of the alley. Felix braced himself as one of the hooded figures raced towards him. Above their head, they brandished a knife with a long skinny blade—likely meant for filleting fish and not stabbing soldiers. Felix grabbed the attacker’s wrist and wrenched it sharply to the side. Bone cracked, and the knife tumbled harmlessly to the ground.

The attacker screamed. Felix doubted this was some professional gangster. He tore off the hood to reveal the young face of a boy. Tears streamed down his face from the pain. A sense of guilt perturbed Felix, but he could not afford to let pity interfere with his job.

“What are you doing?” he snarled.

“I’ll take your crest myself!” the boy cried.

“You really think that’s how it works.” Felix released the boy. The pain was so bad for the boy that he couldn’t even run away; he fell to his knees, clenching his flaccid wrist. “Why are you doing this?”

“We’ll become like gods!” the boy said, but his voice quivered. 

“You know that’s not true, right?” Felix said. “You know that whoever is pulling the strings is just using you, and they’ll toss you aside as soon as they’re in the power.”

“What would you know?”

“Where are your parents?”

The boy made a sound somewhere between a choke, a scoff, and a laugh. “Your dogs took them away.”

“So they were rebels?”

“No! They never did anyone harm, but one day, the white-haired lady just showed up and took them away. The people you call rebels were the ones who took me in afterwards.”

“The white-haired lady? Do you mean Lysithea von Ordelia?” A new wave of rage overcame Felix. What was Lysithea doing detaining random citizens? Felix had denied her the ability to apprehend without his permission.

“Don’t act like you don’t know it! She’s been doing it all over the Waterside. And you wonder why people don’t trust you.”

“What else has she been doing?” Felix asked.

“Hey, let him go!” snarled another voice. One of his friends had appeared, and this one cut a beefier figure. “What did you do to him?” Unlike the boy, he clenched a legitimate war axe.

“Back off,” Felix warned. “Boy, we will take you the castle’s healers if you testify to the King what Ordelia has been—”

“I said, let him go!” The hulking man charged at Felix. Another whizzed by Felix’s ear. It struck the big man in the shoulder. The boy screamed and flattened himself against the alley wall. Arabella stepped into the mouth of the alley, already nocking her next arrow.

The man laughed. He snapped the arrow in half and tossed away the shaft. As he stepped towards Felix, his features began to ripple. His jaw widened and extended as his teeth stretched into long points. Ridges protruded from his brow. His body toppled forward onto all fours, and claws erupted from the ends of his limbs.

“Father, what is that?”

_A demonic beast._

“Arabella, take the boy and get out!”

As Arabella scrambled to drag the child from the alley, Felix charged towards the creature. It had been many years since had battle one of these lupine creatures. Magic shrouded the beast; it felt like slicing through a block of peat, soft but slow. Felix’s first cut barely nicked the creature.

The monster nipped its jaws at Felix. The newborn creature was awkward on its paws, and Felix managed to ducked its first bite. Felix tried bringing his sword again, but the magical barrier was too much. Instead, he threw himself on the back of the wolf. Magic stung his eyes and throat as he choked the monster’s throat. With a twist, he wrestled the beast on its side, but the monster’s heavy body ended up pinning him to the ground.

Weakened, the beast’s magical shield began to fade. Felix tried stabbing it in the belly. This time, he drew blood. The creature wriggled from his grasp and swayed as it founds its footing. Felix tried to stand quickly, but the wolf-monster snapped its jaws around his arm. With a grunt, he dropped his sword. Felix tried punching the creature in the snout, but the monster would not release Felix.

Overhead, he heard a _whoop!_ Feet dropped down from the rooftop. Glenn barreled himself towards the wolf, and finally, the jaws relaxed. Glenn’s sword sliced through the creature’s neck, and finally, the monster heaved to its side, soaking in a pool of its own blood.

“You alive, old man?” Glenn asked.

“That was an incredibly stupid thing to try,” Felix said.

“What is this thing?” Glenn asked, kicking the cold body.

“Don’t worry about it for now. Are there more assassins?”

Glenn shook his head. “Nah, we made quick work of them. I told you, you can’t trust people in this area.”

“It’s not the people in this district that we can’t trust,” Felix said, thinking of the child had told him about Lysithea. Dimitri needed to know about this immediately.

But first, Felix needed a healer.

* * *

Geb remembered the first time he met Aunt B. He was ten years old, let loose near the taffy stalls on market day, with two coins in his pocket to buy three bits of candy apiece. As he and Cora squabbled about the perfect combination of taffy to buy, a hooded woman approached and asked if they knew a man named Linhardt von Hevring.

_“No, ma’am,” Geb had said, even though he knew that that Mumma called Daddy “Lin” in private. By age ten, Geb was a slicker liar than the most polished of conmen._

_The strange, shrouded lady knelt before him. She smiled at Cora now. Cora’s fingernails bit into Geb’s arm._

_“I met you once, Gebhardt,” she said, even though Geb did not recall telling her his name. “When you were first born. Did you know that? I was so inspired that your mother running away with her little family, that I thought I might to do the same myself.”_

_It was then that Geb noticed the little figure that hung in her shadow—a boy of about eight in a hood that matched his mother’s. His hood slid back a bit too far, revealing a shock of dark teal hair and a deep tan. His mother tugged it tightly back over his forehead._

_The lady’s blue eyes radiated with an ethereal depth, as though she peered straight through Geb. “You are just like your mother,” she had said, which was strange because Geb had been told ad nauseum that he resembled his father. Her eyes switched over to Cora, pigtailed and trembling. “You are both just like your mother, aren’t you?”_

_It was then that Geb realized that she hadn’t been talking about their appearance at all._

The bedroom door opened, breaking Geb’s thoughts. Selma leaned out of it with a yawn. He sat at their table, scribbling notes and maps on a collage of papers.

“Don’t you need sleep, Geb?”

“Sleep is for the weak,” Geb continued writing like a madman. “Besides, I can’t sleep with this rain. You know it’s a sign of bad luck.”

Selma peered out the window of their living room. A few unlucky pedestrians caught in the weather were scattering through the streets. Shouts and screams cut through the night. She squinted. Bright lights beamed through the darkness towards the direction of the wharf.

“Hassan should be here soon,” she said. “I hope this doesn’t mean—”

“It probably does,” Geb said. “And there’s not much we can do about it. If there was a solution to this, Aunt B would have discovered it a long time ago.”

“What are you writing anyways?”

“Plans,” Geb said. “Plans to get into the palace. Cora said that there might be a way in through the drains.”

“How did she look?”

“Terrible,” Geb said. “I bet you that they’re not feeding her right.”

“Did she say anything about Theo?”

Geb sighed. He rubbed his eyes. He was tired, but he would try to fight it. He always did.

“No, but I’m going to bet they’re not as interested in him. He didn’t inherit mumma’s condition like we did.”

_Mumma’s condition._

_“That was they wanted, you know.” The kitchen door had been closed but Geb could still hear his father speak to Aunt B. He pressed his ear against the wall to catch their secret conversation. “They believed they could establish new bloodlines. Lysithea, Edelgard…their intention all along was to try to breed a new lineage.”_

_“But the children don’t look like Lysithea—”_

_“The hair is a side effect of the surgery, not the crest,” Mumma had said. “We have no way of knowing if they’ve inherited any of the side effects either. If their lives will be…shortened or affected in any other way.”_

_“But you can remove it.” Aunt B’s swung shrill and frantic. “You can fix it, right? Like you fixed Lysithea—”_

_“That’s not how it works,” Daddy had said. “You can remove a crest that has been artificially implanted, but a genetically inherited crest? One that is rooted in their very blood?” Daddy sighed in a way that only Daddy could. “I cannot remove your son’s crest, Byleth. I’m sorry.”_

Selma snapped her fingers in Geb’s face. “You need sleep,” she said.

“I’ll be—"

A heavy hand beat against their door.

Both froze, breath caught, staring at the door.

A late night visitor or perhaps someone more familiar? In a swift blur, a spell of miasma weaved between Selma’s hands. Geb hesitated before answering the visitor. Behind his back, he summoned a small ball of energy.

“Holy shit, Hassan,” Geb said, and Selma dissipated her spell. “Why are you covered in blood?”

“First off, hi cousin,” Hassan said. He sidestepped into the apartment, and Geb quickly locked the door behind him. “So good to see you are well. And second, not my blood.” He turned towards Selma. “Hey Sellie. Here, catch!” He reached into his pocket and tossed two small curios towards Selma. She just barely caught them.

Selma shrieked. “Gross!” Bits of viscera still stuck to the crests that Hassan had wrenched from the chests of the Agarthans.

“I thought your dad might want them. Anyways,” he clapped and rubbed his hands together, “you guys may have noticed that there is a slight bit of rain tonight—”

“Hassan, what have you done now?” Selma groaned, as she wiped the dried blood off her hands with a handkerchief.

“Look, shit happens, and I would greatly appreciate it if you did not mention it to my mother.” Hassan grinned. “Please?”

“Out of curiosity, Hassan, how long does your mother think it has been since you last broke?” Geb asked.

“Three years?”

“So she has no idea about the incident last time you came to visit?”

“She gets nervous when she thinks I’m in danger,” Hassan said. “And I am an adult, so I don’t see the need in telling her every time it happens.”

“Because every time it happens, it could trigger the end of the world,” Selma said.

“Do you really believe that Sellie?” Hassan asked. “My mom tells some pretty crazy stories. You can’t be certain they’re all true.”

Geb raised an eyebrow. “So what does your mother know about you being here?”

“Oh, who can tell. Although she might have noticed that I disappeared by now—”

“Oh, she’s noticed,” Selma said. “She wrote.”

“And yet, she hasn’t chased me down yet, so I’m going to say that she’s just peachy with the whole situation.” Hassan tried to smile. His cousins appeared unconvinced.

“No, instead she went to visit our parents in the Veil,” Selma said. “My father is not pleased.”

“Is your father ever pleased about anything?” Hassan asked, as he took a seat at the table. He spared a curious glance towards the plans papering the table.

“He’s usually very cheerful on the days when Aunt B leaves,” Selma said. “I cannot imagine his joy when he finally convinces Uncle Lin to move into his own cottage.”

“Oh please,” Geb said. “My father can’t live alone. He’ll never feed himself or get up in the morning. Honestly, I think your father enjoys harassing him. One day, Dori will leave your house, and then who will Uncle Hubert micromanage?”

“Frankly, I’m surprised you’re even here, Sellie,” Hassan said. “Can’t imagine Aunt Edie being very pleased about you leaving the nest.”

“Well, no…but I’ve always wanted to leave,” Selma said quietly. “And I’m an adult, so they let me.”

Geb remembered meeting Selma too. Shortly after the strange, hooded woman appeared, his parents had declared that they were to visit long estranged relatives in Adrestia. Cousins, they said, although this was the first that Geb had ever heard of having cousins.

_It wasn’t until they passed through the bridge of magic that Geb saw them. Two little girls with matching hair, so dark it was almost black, legs dangling from a tree branch. The younger, with eyes like lavender cream, turning an apple over in her hands. The elder, scrawny and long, staring at him with eyes green like an unripe pear._

_Daddy had stopped at the bottom of the tree. “Well, I don’t need a blood test to know who you are,” he said to them._

_Selma dropped from the tree branch. She ignored Linhardt, going straight to the kids. “Are you my cousins?” she asked Geb. “Can we play?” Her and Hassan were the same age, so she must have been eight too. But Selma always seemed older than she really was._

_Mumma had that strange look on her face. “Perhaps we should meet your parents first.”_

_Selma shook her head fervently. “No. They said it was all right! They said I could play.” Geb would never forget the look that she gave him: desperate and yearning. “I’ve never been allowed to play with other kids before.”_

Selma sighed and threw her hands up. To change the subject, she looked Hassan in the eyes and asked. “You know what we’re here for?”

“I know you’re going to get Cora and Theo back,” Hassan said. “But not much more than that.”

“Yes, and we’re going to expose that monster parading around in my mumma’s face,” Geb said.

“Sounds like fun,” Hassan said. He grinned like a dog ready to fetch. “Where do we begin?”

“If we do this, will you promise not to trigger the apocalypse?” Selma said.

“Yeah, of course,” Hassan said. “Look, it’s just a little rain. I haven’t had a really bad episode in over ten years.”

“Comforting,” Geb deadpanned.

“But I don’t have my stuff,” Hassan said. “I had to leave it all behind when the rats jumped me. I know you two are big on the magic show, but I’d feel more comfortable with a sword or something.”

Geb and Hassan both looked towards Selma expectantly. Selma sighed and swiveled back into her room. She returned with a leather case, which she dumped on top of Geb’s papers. The top of the kit parted to reveal a small velvet tray molded to fit several vials of liquid. Selma lifted the tray to reveal another compartment beneath it. Hassan saw a row of razors, needles, and other sharp accoutrements.

Hassan whistled. “Always well-prepared, aren’t you Selma?”

“As if my father would allow me to come to Fhirdiad without a full kit.” Selma began to rummage through the various objects.

Geb laughed suddenly. “Wonder what Danny would say if he saw you with that thing. Wasn’t he trying to teach poor, innocent Sellie how to fight?”

Selma ignored him, but Hassan’s ears perked.

“Who is Danny?” he asked, brows raised suggestively.

“Selma’s boyfriend.”

“He is not.”

“Uncle Hubert know about this?” Hassan asked.

“He is not my boyfriend,” Selma said chillily. “Now do you want this or not?” Selma dangled the handle of a collapsible knife in front Hassan. He reached for it greedily. “Careful with that. Don’t go flashing it around in public places.” Hassan flipped a short, sharp blade from within the handle.

“Why not? I thought this was the rough part of town.”

“Because it is technically the murder weapon in an open investigation,” Selma said.

“Oh. All right then.”

“All right then?” Geb said. “You’re not going to question that?”

“I’ve learned better after all these years,” Hassan said. “Besides,” he gestured down to his bloodied clothing, “I don’t have much room to judge.”

“What happened exactly with the rats?” Selma asked.

Hassan shrugged. “They saw me. They followed me. I handled the situation. Not much to share.”

Hassan wasn’t telling Geb something. Geb could tell by the way he picked at the varnish at the table and slid his eyes to the floor. Of course there was more to the story. The rain wouldn’t be beating down on their roof were the story so simple.

“I’m not sure this is the best place for you right now,” Geb said. “Rats have swarmed this city. We think they’re planning something big during the anniversary celebrations.”

“Yeah, I’ve sorta noticed,” Hassan expelled a heady breath, “I’ve heard that Emperor Edelgard has made a rather dramatic return, but since Aunt Edie has been out of the warmongering business for years, I just assumed someone has been making use of her likeness.”

Selma grumbled. “Don’t call it warmongering.” In response, Hassan balled up one of Geb’s papers and flicked it at her head.

“I’m deadly serious, Hassan. You need to lay low,” Geb warned. “Selma and I can slip by, but they’ve been looking for you for years.”

“I can handle myself,” Hassan said. “They got lucky before, and I know how to disappear.” He stretched his arms. “So what are we going to do?”

“Get my siblings, expose Ordelia, and get out before anything worse happens,” Geb said.

“That’s it? Look, no one knows how to deal with the rats like we do,” Hassan said. “Look, I think…I think there are people we can reach out to. The Sovereign Duke is in town—"

Geb’s bitter laughter cut him short. “And what? And expose ourselves?”

“I can’t,” Selma said tersely. She rubbed her hands up and down, as if she suddenly felt a chill. “I just can’t risk that.”

“Look, these people are the reason why we have had to hide away our entire lives,” Geb said. “We can’t continue to fight this war for them. They have to realize what is going on, and that is their responsibility as the rulers of this nation. Ours is merely to protect the family.”

“Your mother would not wish for you to take these risks,” Selma reminded him. “If she heard you were going to try to make contact with the Duke…” Selma let her words drift off. She merely shook her head sharply. “Don’t do it, Hassan.”

Hassan’s chair clattered back down with a noisy grunt. “Yeah, yeah,” he grumbled. “Fine. So what’s the first step?”

“First, we find our way into the castle.”

* * *

Water lashed against the windows of Castle Blaiddyd. Claude leaned against the sill, a half-drunk glass of wine in his hands, and watched as the puddles grew over the flagstones of the courtyard below.

When he first moved to Derdriu, he had loved the great storms that trundled in from over the northern seas. From the palace, he would watch the waves rise and collide, water skimming over the bridges and sinking back into the great sea basin. Afterwards, the roads would drain and the sea would flatten. The ocean was this great, elastic thing—no matter how great the storm had broken it, it always returned to a state of equilibrium.

If only all the world worked that way. In his youth, Claude had always thought that if you could just weather the storm, eventually the clouds would break and the ocean would level. Somewhere, along the way, he had learned to fear the storms. Perhaps it was not equilibrium that was the baseline of the world. Perhaps storms defined the core of its essence.

 _The waters will always return, Claude._ He sipped his wine to drown out the taste of the memory. Why was this his last memory of her? Hair damp and eyes wild, still shivering, she dripped water onto the tile floors of Simurgh’s palace. _I no longer believe that we can stop this._

Why didn’t he remember the day she left? Was the memory so traumatic that he had to block it out entirely? Or was it because that wasn’t supposed to be the end? She was meant to return after all.

A knock startled him from his thoughts. It was Leonie.

“Claude, you better get down here,” Leonie said. “Amina has arrived.” Leonie’s expression spoke such immediacy in its gaze that Claude instantly felt the horror of a father’s anxiety.

“What happened?”

“She’s fine now, but they were attacked just outside of the city,” Leonie said. Claude was out the door before Leonie could even finish the sentence. He flew through the corridors, leaping down stairs three at a time. 

Claude heard Raphael’s voice booming through the walls. There, in the Great Hall, the once-great fighter was spilling details of a mage attack to Felix and Dedue. Amina stood beside him, shivering in a blanket that someone had thrown over her shoulders. A pool of water puddled at her feet.

 _Hair damp and eyes wild._ She looked like Byleth on that fateful day, twelve years ago.

“Dad!” Amina threw herself into Claude’s arms. Hard to believe that this small creature was almost a woman and no longer quite a child. He hugged her tightly.

“What happened?” Claude asked Raphael. “What is this of mages attacking?”

“Mages?” roared Dimitri. Claude looked up on the landing to see Dimitri bracing over the railings. Marianne trailed behind him like a fearful shadow as he dove down the stairs.

“Oh, Amanda, are you all right?” Marianne asked. Too tired to even correct her on her name, Amina just nodded into her father’s chest. Claude would not let her go, and she did not resist her father’s embrace.

“I haven’t seen anything like this in quite a few years,” Raphael said. “But those mages were definitely Agarthan. Skin like flour. And they had those strange crests in their hearts.”

“On their hearts?” Felix crossed his arms. “How’d you find them?”

“Dad, dad, there was this strange man with us,” Amina said. “And these mages were hunting him, and he cut open their chests to get their crests.”

“Who is this?” Claude asked.

Raphael ducked his head in shame. Perhaps he felt responsible for the whole affair. “A boy I met out at my inn. He seemed pretty nice, but when I tried to bring him to you, he flipped out. Socked me right in the jaw and ran out on us.”

“Dad, this man, he had strange powers,” Amina said. “And he was Almyran and he said he knew me.”

Claude frowned. Fear returned like a flash of déjà vu. The rain against the walls crescendoed in his ears. He smoothed down the snarls in Amina’s wet hair.

“Everything will be fine,” Claude said. “You are safe now, and we will handle these mages and this man.” Amina nodded. “Go rest and get some sleep. I have a feeling I’ll be up all night handling this.”

“Dad, there’s something I have to ask you,” Amina said.

“In the morning, I promise we’ll talk,” Claude said. Reluctantly, he released his daughter, and it felt so sorrowfully like letting go of Byleth all those years ago. Marianne took her by the hand.

“Why don’t you come with me, Amanda?” she said sweetly. “We’ll get you all dry and warm for bed.” Amina rubbed her eyes. Only now had Claude realized she had been crying. The water had disguised her tears.

* * *

Despite the overwhelming exhaustion that she felt, Corisande could not sleep. Rain thundered on the walls, amplifying the anxieties that nightly visited her. Her thoughts screamed through her skull. At a certain point, she gave up on sleep entirely, lit a candle, and began fumbling with the old puzzle box that Geb had given her.

That was how Theo found her. The rain woke him too, and he sat up in bed, expecting his sister to be asleep in the bed next to him, but finding her instead twisting the wooden components along the grooves.

“I thought you solved that already,” Theo said, crawling onto her bed.

“Yeah, but it’s comforting,” Corisande said. “Do you remember these?”

“I remember you and Geb always arguing about who got to solve it. And then mumma would toss us out of the house and tell us to go do it somewhere else.”

“That was the point of them, you know. To get out us out of the house so dad could sleep or mumma could read in peace.” The wooden pieces clicked with every turn—an acoustic memory buried into every snap. The wood even felt the same, sanded down with her father’s familiar hand.

“What did the letter say?” Theo asked. Geb had hidden a note in the core of the box, but it was difficult to relay such information to Theo without the monster overhearing it. Even now, Corisande glanced towards the door. All she heard was the pounding rain. 

“It said that he was going to use the festivities to break into the palace and free us. Dad and Geb have been living with Aunt Edie all these years, so we’ll be going back to the Veil. I think Dad wants to leave for Brigid. You know, when daddy and mumma used to say they knew the Queen of Brigid, I always thought it was a tall tale.” 

“Do you think it will work?” Theo asked.

Corisande sighed and set the puzzle back on the nightstand. “It never has, and it probably never will. This is Geb’s death wish. It is better off for everyone if he and dad stay in the Veil. I’m honestly shocked that Selma’s parents let her come.”

“Selma’s here?”

“Yeah, and if they find out who she is…well, it won’t end well for anyone.”

“You always said that these people wanted to harm dad, but they seem to talk about him fondly.”

“If they were so fond of him, they would have intervened when the church wanted him dead,” Corisande said. “They were content to let him take the fall, just as they were with everyone else. If the church found out about daddy or mumma, you better believe that all of these sweet-talking nobles would suddenly change their tune.”

“Can I stay in your bed tonight?” Theo asked. Corisande nodded. “I don’t like this storm.” He crawled under the covers with his sister. But their respite was not to last long. They heard footsteps clamber up the hall, and soon the door opened.

“Cora, I need you,” said Lysithea’s cold voice. In private, she never bothered to conceal her steel edge to her voice. “Theo, go back to your bed. _Cora_ ,” Corisande hated it when she called her that. Mumma called her that. Daddy called her that. It was a family name, not meant to be besmirched by this pale-faced monster. “Amanda von Riegan has had quite the night. I need you to go down there and play nice. There was a young man with her; I need you to find out who he was and where he is hiding.”

“Why me?”

“Because you’re supposed to be friends with her.” _Supposed to be._ It was an order, not a statement of fact. Lysithea had ordered Corisande to get close to the Riegan heir, and Corisande abided by the command only to the bare minimum of the request.

Corisande slid out of bed. As she wrapped a robe around her nightgown, she said, “Yes, ma’am, Pythia.”

The response was instantaneous. The false Lysithea was at her side, pinching her nails into Corisande’s shoulder.

“You do not call me by that name within these halls,” she hissed into her ear.

Corisande winced, but even then she was smiling. _How easy it is to rile the monster_. “Yes, mother. Forgive me.” Lysithea released her. Corisande could still feel her nails piercing her skin.

“Now go. That boy must be found or else this—” She pointed out the window at the glaze of rain distorting the glass, “this will be our end.”

Corisande stared out at the rain. _It can’t be,_ she thought. Quickly, she shook the thought from her head. Lysithea pushed a bowl of fruit into her hands and herded her down the hallway to find Amina’s quarters.

Amina’s room was connected to her father’s via a small living room chamber. Such tension broiled in the air they didn’t immediately notice Corisande. Amina sat on a jacquard chaise, staring into the distance as Hilda mussed with her hair. Marianne had scrounged up a dressing gown designed for an older woman, ruffed with lace, with a hem so long that it puddled on the ground.

“Amanda—sorry, you like to be called Amina don’t you?” Hilda said. “You have nothing to fear while you are here. And if you have any problems whatsoever, Aunty Hilda will teach you how to cut off their heads.”

“I know how to fight,” Amina said. “That’s how I got kicked out again.” Hilda howled in laughter.

“I always wondered why Claude doesn’t just send you to Garreg Mach,” Hilda said, working on some elaborate plait in Amina’s hair. “You would fit in very well over there.” 

“Are you hungry? Would you like a cup of tea?” Marianne asked Amina. “Chamomile, perhaps, or—“

“No thank you, your majesty,” Amina droned.

“You must not call me that. I am just Aunt Marianne,” she said, her smile speaking warmth and her eyes screaming dread. At this moment, she alighted up Corisande. Her eyes widened. “Oh, Corisande, how nice of you to come. You and Amanda are good friends, aren’t you?”

Corisande met Amina’s gaze. Amina rolled her eyes and turned away. Corisande shrugged.

“My mother sends her regards,” Corisande droned. She held forward the fruit like an offering to a strange pagan god. “She asked me to check in on Amina.”

“Oh, how sweet,” Marianne said.

“What happened out there?” Corisande asked. Her goal was to find out the information for Lysithea and escape this tedious conversation as soon as possible. The blunt delivery of her question made Amina scowl, and Marianne’s hand flew to her mouth.

“We need not discuss it tonight,” Marianne said.

“I was attacked by bizarre mages,” Amina said. “And there was a man with us who cut open their chests and tore out their hearts.” _Agarthan mages_ , Corisande guessed, _especially if their hearts were of any interest._ No wonder Lysithea sent her out to find out what happened. But that tactic of removing hearts belonged to only a few people, which made Corisande’s own heart fold in upon itself.

“A strange man? What do you mean?”

“He was traveling with us. Thought he was pretty normal until it happened.”

“What was his name?” Corisande could not help but say it with some urgency—Ordelia would probably want her to play her cards closer to her chest, but her panic had already made her think wild things.

“Hassan. He was part Almyran, like me.”

Corisande’s head flew back to look at the rain. No wonder Ordelia was so desperate. They were still hunting his crest, and now Hassan was in the city, probably searching for Geb and Selma. Corisande wasn’t sure if this foreboded good or bad news. Either way, it made her insides squeeze with dread.

 _You’ll have to lie to Ordelia_ , she thought. _Come up with another answer. Any other answer._

“I think that is enough for tonight,” Marianne twittered. Her hands settled down on Corisande’s shoulders, and Corisande flinched. “Perhaps we ought to let Aman—I mean, Amina rest tonight.”

Corisande wandered out of the bedroom in a haze. Hassan was here. That meant that Aunt B was not far behind. Anyone else might have rejoiced that, but Corisande was wise to such things. She knew that such a convergence meant only one thing.

_Apocolypse._

* * *

At some point, just beyond the walls of Fhirdiad, Jeritza stopped his horse suddenly, slid from its back and bounded towards the edge of the road. Ashe pleaded with him to return. The downpour had only tapered slightly since it began, and here Jeritza was splashing in puddles like a child. He had discovered an abandoned wagon on the side of the road. He went wild sifting through its cargo, muttering nonsense to himself as he did so.

“Oh, another eagle has swept in and taken my quarry.” He held up a satchel. In the darkness, Ashe just barely saw knives and vials poking from it. “Or perhaps a little eaglet, sprung from the nest. No, no, this one is a wolf cub.”

The water clouded Ashe’s eyes. His clothing felt several pounds heavier with the rain, and even the horse was losing patience—shaking its mane and spraying out whorls of water. Fhirdiad was so close—if Ashe stretched out his arm, his fingertips might brush against its walls. Tonight, he would finally go home to his little house. He would see Dedue. He would destroy the dastard that took his place.

But no, Jeritza was now stomping through the mudbanks. “Look, look, more little rat corpses, already stripped of their prizes. Somebody’s mother is going to very pleased with them—or very upset.”

“Can we go already?” Ashe snapped. “We are so close—”

“Patience, baby bird,” Jeritza said. “The hunting grounds are calling, but pounce too soon and the whole herd will disperse.”

“What does that mean?”

“What do you suppose will happen when you march into your fine little castle and another is sitting in your place? Will your lover and your king recognize you? Or will they think you’re the monster?”

Ashe faltered. What proof did he have that he was the true Ashe? The other one had slipped through the checkpoints. The other one bore all his chains of station.

“They’re my friends,” Ashe said. “They will know me.”

“If you are so confident, then go,” Jeritza said. “But you only have one chance. If you blow it, the rats will make sure that you don’t get another.”

“So what do you suggest that we do?”

Jeritza stuck his hand into the open chest cavity of the mage. Ashe shuddered. He repressed the urge to retch. “First, we must get into the city. Or did you think that those checkpoints were only there to annoy the farmers?”

 _The checkpoints._ Naturally the city would be guarded, more stringently too than the country thoroughfares. The great concentric bulwarks that ringed Fhirdiad grew thicker and taller the deeper one delved into the city. With recent events unfurling as they were, every district would probably be thronged with guards and soldiers. Ashe had no proof of his identity, and the man masquerading with his face probably would utilize his lordly power to destroy his original.

“Surely, you know a way in,” Jeritza droned. Something clicked for Ashe.

“Is that why you brought me here?” Ashe asked. “You saved me just so I would sneak you into the city.”

“I told you,” Jeritza said nonchalantly. “I wish to see my sister.”

Ashe racked his brain for anything that might help them. Drains spewed sewage into the moat around the city, but strong grates blocked their way. One might procure false papers to bluff their way through the main gates, but Ashe did not have the resources or the time to work that out.

 _You were a thief once, Ashe,_ he thought to himself, _think like a thief._

“There are crypts that run under the city,” Ashe said. “Some extend out beyond the walls. They’re meant to be an escape route, should the king ever need to leave the city, and they lead straight to Castle Blaiddyd but—”

“Very well.” Jeritza lifted his leg to mount the horse.

“Wait. Any passages into the castle are locked from the inside. You cannot access from this end. We’ll have to find our way out to the streets, and it is easy to get lost.”

Jeritza swung into his saddle, his back now firmly facing Ashe. “I am not afraid of some tunnels. But who else knows of these?”

“With any luck, no one,” Ashe said. “Many know about the catacombs beneath the city, but only the inner circle of the king knows about the ones that lead to the castle. I think only the Blue Lions truly know about it.”

Jeritza kicked the flank of the horse. The horse staggered towards the sleeping city. Jeritza said no more, and Ashe took that as his affirmative. They would have to find their way into the sunken crypts of the city. He only hoped that no one else had discovered it yet. 

* * *

The Ashe-that-was-not-Ashe continued to explore the space between the walls. The network of passageways that wove between the castle’s disparate parts was as impressive as it was labyrinthine. Since the Gloucester brat had first revealed the passages to him, the false Ashe, or Trophonius as his true name was, had mapped out as many of these hollow spaces as he could, disappearing between stone and plank for hours at a time. Multiple ingresses lay concealed around the palace. The more he explored, the more he realized that these were no accidental crawlspaces but deliberately built tunnels.

This new path dropped out to the cellar. The false Ashe held up his magic torch. Cobwebs coated the rafters in snowy white. Above him, feet groaned onto the floorboards. A secret compartment, perhaps, below some mundane alcove. Ashe took a moment to mark the cellar on his map before exploring the space.

A long forgotten trapdoor, its hinges rusted tight, nestled up against the ceiling. Trophonius waited for the footsteps to pass away and for the light to cease from between the floorboards. Then he pressed his fingertips up against the door and lifted. A rug covered the panel; through the gap, he managed to shove it aside. Now he peered into some cabinet walled with shelves bearing the castle’s extensive collection of dinnerware. He must be somewhere near the kitchens, below the banquet hall perhaps.

Trophonius gently lowered the door and dropped back down into the dusty floor. Only now did his torch illumine the square panels of another trap door, this one buried in the dust of the cellar floor. Trophonius blew off the dirt. Heavy latches enclosed the door. A spurt of magic loosened their hold on the door. Trophonius yanked up hatch.

The darkness of the oubliette taunted him. Trophonius sat on the ledge and stared down into its inkiness. He lowered his torch into the opening. If he died here, Pythia would never know, but she likely wouldn’t mourn him either. But if this was what he thought it was, no one would be sending him off to stalk eagles in the Waterside District.

With a deep breath, Trophonius slid off into the darkness. His torch splashed white light along the smooth walls of a well-carved tunnel. Down as far as the torch would carry the light the tunnel ran. A passage this long could likely carry him all the way out of the palace…or carry someone else in.

Trophonius grinned. “Well, well, guess who’s on Pythia’s good side now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the late chapter. Computer issues and the holidays kept me from completing edits on time. But I hope this chapter illuminates more about some of our mysterious characters. Next chapter, Felix confronts Lysithea, Sylvain helps Anton get a date for the royal ball, and Claude reveals his hand. 
> 
> Let me know what you think in the comments! While there is still a bit to be revealed in the next few chapters, feel free to shoot me any questions you have in the comments (they help me know how to edit the future chapters!) You can also reach out to me [on Twitter. ](https://twitter.com/skreev1)


	10. The Missing Pieces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felix’s accusation ends in gridlock, but it sparks a new lead for Claude. Dimitri tries to repair his broken relationship with his son. Unfortunately for Anton, that leads to Uncle Sylvain helping him get a date for the royal ball.

Claude knocked on the door of the War Room, Lorenz to one side of him and Hilda to the other—an unofficial assembly of the Leicester governing parties. _The war room is aptly named,_ he thought, for while it was technically a time of peace, Claude felt as though he was walking into a battlefield.

“I don’t care if she’s the spymaster! She’s overstepping her jurisdiction!” Felix slammed his fist down on the table of the war room. “Quite frankly, with the way she’s been behaving, I see ample opportunity of ousting her from her position.”

“Oh, good, Claude, you have arrived,” Dimitri said. He stood with a bow and gestured for Claude to take the seat beside him. “Felix has concerns about Lysithea’s overreach in the Waterside District.”

Dimitri had gathered a council of his own. In addition to Felix, Dedue and Ashe sat on polar ends of the table. Dedue’s usually placid expression furrowed with deep lines of discontent, while Ashe leaned back in his chair, arms splayed nonchalantly over the back.

Claude nodded. “I’ve heard. Well, I heard as I was coming down the hall.”

“Perhaps discretion is warranted,” Dedue said calmly, his voice a suggestion of the volume he might prefer Felix to keep.

“She is randomly detaining people without habeas corpus,” Felix explained. “No writs of arrest. No warrants. She’s gone mad. We have no clue where these people are even going.”

“Well, that’s a little unfair, don’t you think?” Ashe said. “We know where they are. We have most of them accounted for in the jails.”

“Most of them?” Dedue said sharply.

“All I am saying is that she is doing exactly the job that the Triumvirate sent her to do,” Ashe said. “These political squabbles are exactly what the malcontents want you to focus on right now. It’s a distraction. Let’s focus on heightening security for the ball. We only have a few days.”

“Claude, what do you think?” Dimitri asked. Claude studied Dimitri closely. Both elbows crooked against the table, holding the bulk of his weight as he massaged circles into his temples. The troughs beneath his eye and the ashen complexion of his face inspired a fresh wave of concern.

Lorenz answered instead of Claude. “I am inclined to agree with Ashe on this issue. If Lysithea is overreaching, it is perhaps because we have poorly instituted the office of the Spymaster. She does technically have the powers to perform in this way.”

“Are you saying that we should just let her run wild?” Felix snarled.

“I am saying that we should reform the office,” Lorenz corrected icily. “If we were to penalize her for utilizing powers we granted to her, we would undermine the entire structure of the Triumvirate and become no better than what we are accusing her of.”

Claude groaned. Lorenz was technically right, which annoyed Claude for several reasons. More than just their personal rivalry, ever since he had ascended as Sovereign Duke, Claude had come to realize the power of precedence in a government. Divesting Lysithea of powers without due cause or a tribunal would set a dangerous precedent. With the Triumvirate as young as it was, Claude was hesitant to invoke such powers.

That said, something about Felix’s accusation made sense to Claude. Like an instinct clawing at the back of his brain. He was missing something. He could feel it—a hole in the fabric of this whole mess, a puzzle piece that had gone astray in the board.

“We could hold a vote of no confidence,” Claude said. “That would temporarily restrain her powers, but we would need Ferdinand for that. Where is Ferdinand? He did not return with the soldiers.”

Exasperation underlined Dimitri’s voice. “We received a missive that he had been delayed out in the Rhodos Coast—”

“What was he doing out there?” Hilda asked.

“I am not certain,” Dimitri said, “But that was the last we heard of him. He may have been further delayed on the return journey.” What a time for Ferdinand to go off traipsing off, Claude thought. His obsession with Linhardt had proved to be more detrimental than beneficial thus far.

“We don’t have time for that,” Felix said. “Lysithea’s antics could bring this whole city down. Someone has to stop her.”

“Look, Lord Gloucester has a point,” Ashe said. “But I have a plan.” All heads turned towards him. “We don’t need to divest her. What we need to do is distract her. I’ll tell her that I remember some new information from my journey to Gaspard, and I’ll come up with something that will temporarily repurpose her.”

“Like what?” Dedue asked stonily. Claude did not miss how his fist curled on the table.

“I don’t know,” Ashe snapped back. “I’m coming up with this on the fly. Perhaps I’ll tell her we need to go…into the catacombs for security reasons. To check things out. That will keep her distracted for the next few days. Ferdinand is bound to return.”

Dimitri nodded. “Does that satisfy you, Felix? Until we work out a better solution?”

Felix growled. “Fine.”

“We’ll find some way of doing this legally,” Claude said. “If we can dig up more evidence of her overstepping her powers, we can perhaps launch an investigation.”

“If evidence is what you want, I can have it personally delivered to you by the end of the day,” Felix said. 

After that point, the council formally dispersed. Felix went off to curate his evidence. Dedue and Ashe stubbornly departed in different directions. Dimitri just sat at the table, staring down its length, his fingers tracing shapes against the varnish.

“It’s odd, isn’t it?” Hilda said as the three Leicester friends ambled down the hallway. “Lysithea was always so prickly, but I never thought her capable of this.”

“People change,” Lorenz said. “And not always for the better. Old age breeds obstinance, and Lysithea never really had the inclination for noble governance. I always warned her that she would have to take better care, but she ignored me.”

Claude sunk into deep into thought. He trailed behind the other two, uncaring of where they went, only thinking of what hidden clue tugged at his brain.

“Have you noticed how her kids hate her?” Hilda asked.

“Her children do not hate her,” Lorenz said. “They are teenagers. That is what they do, Hilda. Trust me.”

“This is not like your kids, Lorenz,” Hilda said. “They act really, really strange around her.”

“Do not take that tone with me,” Lorenz said. “Mercedes and I practically raise her son these days. And her daughter! What a disaster. Mercedes has her hands full just trying to break through to that girl.”

“Yeah,” Claude added idly, trying to shake off the feeling. “Besides, Corisande is not really a teenager.”

“Technically, she is,” Hilda said. “She’s nineteen.”

“No, she isn’t,” Claude said with a laugh. “She twenty-three.”

Both Lorenz and Hilda stared at Claude with a confused expression.

“I would not say that to young Corisande,” Lorenz said. “She might take offense.”

Claude frowned. “I am fairly sure she’s twenty-three.”

Hilda shook her head. “You were in Almyra, but I went to that disastrous birthday that Lysithea threw for her. Corisande was miserable. I was pretty sure the whole was just for show.”

“She seems so young," Lorenz said. "I cannot believe you would mistake her for older.”

 _No, no,_ Claude thought. _She had to be twenty-three_. He knew these dates well. The incident had been a point of contention between him and Byleth. Too many secrets. Too much intrigue. Twenty-three years ago, Lysithea and Byleth had—

_Oh shit._

Something was very wrong here. Claude could not place his finger on it, but it filled him with a deep, unnameable dread. He had always assumed that Corisande had been _that one_. But if she wasn’t…

“Excuse me,” Claude said. “I need to think some things through.”

It was time for Claude to compile a little evidence of his own.

* * *

Another day, another escape. It was getting more and more difficult for Anton to slip out of the palace. Ever since Amina von Riegan had returned, Anton felt as though he might never escape again. Now he traversed his familiar path through the cisterns only to find that the grate was locked.

Anton shook the grate uselessly. The metal rattled but did not give. Frustrated, he kicked the door with a groan of rage, which was only cut short by the sound of splashing behind him.

“Well, well, is this how you were always escaping?”

Anton squeezed his eyes shut. He really, really didn’t want to face his father now of all times.

“What are you doing down here, father?” Anton struggled to keep his tone level.

“Felix believed there was traffic coming through the cisterns,” he said. “I thought I would take a gander myself.”

Finally, Anton looked towards Dimitri. “Well, you caught me. Now what?”

Curiously, Dimitri didn’t appear angry or even annoyed with Anton. He leaned against a pillar, his one good eye flitting from corner to corner distracted. “Tell me, Anton, where do you think the weak points of this palace are?”

“Not the cisterns anymore,” Anton said, exasperated. Dimitri made a noise that wasn’t quite a laugh but enough to signify a hint of amusement. Anton wrung his hands. He would probably regret this sometime deep in the future, but he wasn’t stupid. He understood the threats against them, and it was time to play his hand.

“On the northern walls,” he said, “there’s an old oak tree you can climb to get over the wall, and if you make it up on the parapet, you can wrangle yourself into one of the windows overlooking the chapel.” Dimitri’s eye slid towards Anton. His eyebrows raised, as if asking for more. “Plus, on delivery days, you can sometimes take advantage of the confusion and smuggle yourself out on the old vegetable cart. The proprietor is senile, and his sons are easily bribed.”

Dimitri smiled. “I should have hired you for security.”

“Well, I’m busy with my work assisting Lord Aegir.”

“How is that going?”

“Honestly? Not well. Ferdinand has several leads, all of which seem to go nowhere, but they sure are _loving_ him down in Waterside. You’ll be very lucky if you don’t have an uprising down there, what, with Ordelia trying to tamp down on any free expression.”

“You know about that?” Dimitri suddenly said.

“Know about what? That’s she raiding houses without warrants and disappearing folks?” Anton shrugged. Dimitri stared at him, jaw dropped. “Oh, wipe that dumb expression off your face. I’ve been saying this for weeks. No one has listened.”

“I apologize,” Dimitri said, “if I did not listen—”

Anton sighed. “It’s not you. At least, it’s mostly not you. Ferdinand von Aegir is impossible to break through to, and Fraldarius certainly doesn’t want my opinion.”

“Perhaps it is time for me to start listening.” Dimitri hummed. “Tell me, Anton, what do you suppose would be a friendly gesture to the folks of that district?”

This took Anton aback. Was his father really asking for his advice on this, or was it some sort of trap to further debate Anton on his enlightened politics? Still, if he had his father’s ear, he might as well make use of it.

“Let’s see…a mandatory holiday for all laborers would be a kind move. Or set up food tents and give them something good to drink. Let them celebrate. They have so few chances down there. And the New Church is rotten at disbursing charity. They just call all the residents criminals, but most of them are just good, honest, hard-working people who were displaced by the war.”

“You really seem to understand the place.” Dimitri pushed off from the column. “I can surmise that you had plans today—” he gestured towards the grate, “but now is not time to go wandering by yourself. Play nicely for the next fortnight. If not for your own sake, then for your poor mother’s. She is going to have a heart attack if you disappear with all of this Edelgardian business.”

“Fair enough,” Anton said. He trailed his father back through the cistern. It was strange to see his father down here, ducking under the bough of arches that crisscrossed the ceiling. His inhabited the gilded rooms; he gleamed in polished armor atop varnished thrones. Not like Anton. Anton thrived amongst the damp and the dark.

Father and son collapsed into awkward silence as they ascended the stairs back towards the main level of the castle.

“So have invited anyone to the ball?” Dimitri asked, desperate to take advantage of the one opportunity to talk to Anton without pushback. 

Anton laughed. “Are you kidding me? Who would I invite?”

“One of your associates perhaps? I assume you have friends beyond these walls.”

“Father, they don’t know I’m a prince,” Anton said, something which he never thought he would ever admit to Dimitri.

“What in the world have you been getting up to?”

“I understand that you’re predisposed to think the worst of me, but it is more mundane than you might think.”

“Well, invite them anyways,” Dimitri said. “You cannot hide yourself forever.”

“Really? Because I thought that was your strategy,” Anton said.

Dimitri skated on thin ice. He could hear it in his son’s voice. This tired conversation again and again. He had made a dire mistake. At the top of the stairs, he held out an arm before they could enter the hallways, which thronged with listening ears.

“The decision to keep your crest secret was not my own,” Dimitri said. Anton rolled his eyes. “It was at the insistence of your mother’s family, and I deferred to them because this is their struggle that you have inherited. I cannot pretend to understand it.”

Anton crossed his arms. His voice shrunk. “You didn’t have to keep it a secret from me.”

“I saw what that crest did to your mother’s confidence growing up,” Dimitri said. “We wanted you to have a happy childhood, without worrying about beasts or curses.”

“But letting me find out like that? At school of all places!”

“I regret that, and I apologize. Deeply. Truly.” He sounded, at least, sincere, but what could sincerity do to heal the rift between them? “We should have told you before you left for Garreg Mach.”

“It is what it is now,” Anton said, “I shall remain the first Blaiddyd in three generations not to bear the right crest.”

Dimitri sighed. “You know, Margrave Edmund disapproved of my marriage to your mother at first.” Anton had never heard this before. Margrave Edmund was the only grandparent he had, technically, a distant elderly figure from his youth who would occasionally appear on religious holidays with bland gifts like a book of hours or prayer beads. “He did not wish to take responsibility for, as he put it, adulterating the Blaiddyd lineage with the Crest of the Beast. I had to persuade him that should my heir bear the Crest of the Beast, it would not matter to me, an opinion I still hold to this day.”

Anton wavered between the anger that had ossified in his bones and an anxiety he could not explain. “Then why continue to keep it a secret?” His voice cracked. Dimitri opened his mouth, but Anton beat him to it. “It is because you know that for all your noble beliefs, nobody else would accept me for it. I knew this the second those mercenaries attacked me at school. If I rule, my entire existence will have to remain a secret, and not just my existence but that of my bloodline going forward.”

“Your mother bears enough guilt as it is for—”

“I don’t blame mother,” Anton said. “I’m not petty. I do blame you, however, because my whole life you taught me that crests didn’t matter. That crests should not rule our society. And yet you allowed it to rule my life.”

Dimitri nodded. “You are correct. I understand now the legacy of my actions. But you are an adult, Anton, and soon you will have to decide for yourself whether or not you continue allow this to control your life. Because running away does not mean that you are escaping it.”

Anton groaned. He pushed open the door to the castle, an abrupt close to their conversation.

“Anton, wait.” Anton halted, without turning to look back at his father. “You should invite someone to the ball. I think it would make your mother happy.”

Anton snorted. “Guess I’ll have to leave the palace then.” He continued down the hall until he had disappeared entirely, leaving Dimitri to stand there and wonder how his son always ending up slipping through his fingers.

* * *

By the time Anton managed to wriggle his way out of the palace again, Sylvain had abruptly appeared, demanding to take Anton to the street fairs for a little guy-to-guy chat. Judging by the way that Sylvain was effusing about the lovely young ladies of the Faerghus court, Anton was beginning to suspect that his father’s suggestion to invite someone to the ball was becoming a requirement.

“What about Arabella Fraldarius? You two always got along.”

They moved shoulder-to-shoulder with the crowds mobbing the main boulevards of Tailorsgate. Anton wilted under the attention, praying that none of his friends from Waterside were enjoying the festivities today. Last thing he needed was to be sighted with Margrave Gautier in threads that would cost a working man’s yearly wages.

“Arabella’s and my begrudging respect of each other is borne out of our unvoiced compact never to speak to each other,” Anton said. “I haven’t said a word to her in five years, and I would hate to break that streak.”

“All right, all right,” Sylvain said. “What about my own Josephine? It would make up for that very loud, very public argument the two of you had during the Garland festival.”

“No offense, Uncle Sylvain, but your daughter is a statist, and her politics are—”

“Whoa, sorry I suggested it.” Sylvain rubbed the back of his head. “What about Amina von Riegan? I know she’s younger than you, but it could be a cute platonic sort of thing.”

“Yeah, and we’ll both be dodging marriage rumors for the next ten years.”

“How about a random woman that we pluck off the streets and whom you haven’t overanalyzed the flaws of?”

Anton stopped listening. He tripped over his own feet, eyes widening in horror.

“We should turn back.” He grabbed Sylvain’s shirt and tried to push him back down the street from where they came.

“Why?” Sylvain followed Anton’s desperate gaze. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched a young woman hawking paintings to pedestrians. Dark sable-brown—nearly black— hair and a tall, lithe form. Sylvain’s voice had a suggestive drawl to it as he asked: “Oh, who is she?”

“No one,” Anton said. “I can’t be seen here.”

“Why not?”

“Because…it’s complicated.”

“Try me.”

“Look, I know her, and she doesn’t want to see me so—”

“First question, does she know you’re a prince?”

Anton went slackjawed. “Did my father tell you that?”

“No, I honestly just guessed.” Sylvain shrugged nonchalantly. “Look, I get it. Some girls are impressed by the whole royalty thing and others are scared away. You need to pull the Bunbury card sometimes. I assume you have a second identity?”

Anton’s panicked expression did not adequately represent the anguish churning inside of him as all his worlds threatened to collide. “Yeah,” he choked out.

“Well, what it is? I don’t want to give you up quite yet.”

“No, you are not going over there,” Anton said. “You are not—”

“Danny!” Geb’s voice rang out over the bustle of the crowd. “Danny, is that you?” Anton cursed. He tried to turn away and squeeze into the crowd. Damn his height! 

“Well, let’s get to it, _Danny_ ,” Sylvain said. “Hello, sir. Who are you?”

“Gebhardt Breslin.” Geb extended a hand to Sylvain. “Well don’t you look dapper, Danny. I’m going to upgrade you from secret merchant’s son to secret’s nobleman’s son. And you must be Danny’s much lauded father.”

“I am not,” Sylvain said. “Mr. Breslin, if I may, who is that fine young lady over there?”

“My cousin, Selma. A very good friend of Danny’s, if you know what I mean.” Geb waggled his eyebrows. Anton wondered that if he wished hard enough, the earth would loosen its jaws and swallow him up where he stood. Maybe there were more assassins lurking in the city. Maybe they could kill him now and spare him this torture.

“Selma and I are not friends,” Anton said quickly. “She made that very clear the last time that we spoke.”

“Yeah, she’s said the same to me several times a day for the last week or so,” Geb sighed. “Please go make nice to her. Our cousin is in town, and it’s not as much fun to gang up on her when she’s all mopey.”

“Actually, Danny here has an invitation to the Royal Ball in a few days,” Sylvain said. “And we were seeking eligible candidates for his date.”

Geb released a strangled squeak. Hands clamped over his mouth in excitement, and he nearly dropped his cigarillo.

“Well, Selma is very eligible, and a fine dancer too,” Geb said. “And very pretty. Don’t you think she’s very pretty, Danny?”

“No. No. I can’t. Look, Sylvain, introducing my dad to Selma would be disastrous. It’s one thing when it’s a childhood acquaintance. It’s another when it’s someone who I…esteem very highly.”

“Are you afraid your father will disapprove of her?” Sylvain asked in a low whisper.

“No, I’m afraid Selma will disapprove of my father.” Anton ran a nervous hand through his hair. “Look, I’ll just invite Arabella. It’ll be fine. I’ll write her an invitation, and then we don’t have to speak to each other the whole evening. Ideal really.”

Sylvain grasped Anton’s shoulders and held him still. “Hey, I used to give your dad dating advice too. Listen to dear Uncle Sylvain. This is what you’ll do. Invite her. Let it be a gesture of good faith. You’re being vulnerable. You’re showing her who you really are. She’ll eat it up.”

“She’ll eat it right up,” Geb said. “I am also very curious, so please don’t hold back on the personal details.”

“Or she’ll be furious,” Anton said.

“So you placate her. Give her a gift,” Sylvain said.

“Well, I’ve been teaching her how to fight,” Anton said, “And she doesn’t have a sword so I could—”

“No, no, I’m going to stop you there,” Sylvain said. “You’re thinking like your dad. Get her something girls like. Like perfume or frilly handkerchiefs or roses or something.”

“Does Aunt Ingrid really like that stuff?”

Anton had caught Sylvain. Ingrid did actually prefer weapons or books about weapons or things she could wear while swinging a weapon. Or meat. Sylvain had gotten away with many a birthday with a nice meal. As he racked his brain, Sylvain wondered if he had been out of the game too long. What did women enjoy as gifts?

Geb waved a hand. “It doesn’t matter. Have you seen that girl? Anything nice will impress her poor rustic soul.” Geb snatched Anton’s arm. “Now, go ask her.” He knocked Anton in the direction of Selma. Anton caught Selma’s eye; she crooked an eyebrow expectantly. There was no escape now.

“Sellie, hey,” Anton stammered. “Look, I know we ended things poorly last time but—”

“What were you talking about with Geb and that nobleman?”

“Ah…nothing, really. Um, hey, there’s a ball soon. You want to come with me?”

_Smooth, Anton, real smooth. A real winner that line was._

“A what?”

“A ball. A royal ball actually. At the castle.” Was he supposed to sweat like this? He expected Selma to either react with joy or annoyance or…anything really. Her face was as blank as fresh parchment.

“You’re going to that?” she asked confused.

“Yes, and I need a date,” Anton said. “Would you like to come?”

“I just—”

“This is painful.” Geb swung up behind Selma. He wrapped an arm around his cousin. “Let me help. Danny, Selma would be delighted to attend the ball with you.”

“But…I don’t have a dress! Much less one for a royal ball…and how exactly did you get invited to this thing, Danny?”

“We’ll get you a dress,” Geb snapped. “Now give the poor boy a chance.”

“In a day?”

Now it was Sylvain gliding up with a twinkling smile and flirting eyes. “Well, you should come up to the castle. We could probably find something for you.”

Selma frowned. “I am not sure—ow!” Geb pinched her ear.

“She’ll do it.” Geb grinned at Anton.

“Great, I guess I’ll come pick you up in the afternoon,” Anton said. “Um, great.”

“Eh…sure?” Selma said.

Sylvain clapped his hands and rubbed them together. “That was painless.”

It didn’t feel painless. It felt, actually, very, very painful—like a knot budding right behind Anton’s heart. The breath had knocked from his lungs, and he considered what it would be like to introduce his father to Selma of all people—radical, serious, _Adrestian_ Selma.

* * *

When Danny and the strange man left, Selma spun around and knocked Geb over the head. “What was that about? A royal ball?”

“Sellie,” Geb pleaded, “this is good. This our way in. The cisterns are locked from the inside, but you can into the palace and let us in.”

“So you want to do this now,” Selma said. “At the ball?”

Geb nodded. “This is perfect. In and out before the rats swarm Fhirdiad.”

A wildfire of anxiety rushed through Selma. Her voice lowered to a quibble. “Do you think they will recognize me?”

“Of course not,” Geb said. “Why would they?”

“I’m pretty sure Ferdinand von Aegir recognized me.”

“This will be great, Selma. This will be _good_.”

“Who is Danny do you think?” Selma asked, a mystery that only grown more curious the longer they had known him.

Geb grinned. “I don’t know, but you’re going to find out.”

* * *

It was still morning when Claude found Amina in the training grounds. Despite his promises of a quick turnaround, Felix was still hunting for the political axe to drop on Lysithea’s head. Claude had spent most of the night trying to piece together his own Lysithea mystery. Amina desperately wanted to talk, he knew, but the growing danger around the ball wholly occupied Claude’s attention. If his intuition was correct, then he had to prioritize her wellbeing over her teenaged angst.

Still, just as Felix could not find the evidence to put Lysithea away, Claude lacked any proof to ground his own assumptions. He had no evidence, only a hunch and a collection of faded memories.

So when he found Amina slamming arrows against a target, he realized that perhaps it was finally time for father and daughter to chat.

Claude watched for a minute as her arrows thwacked against the bullseye, neatly crowding near the center of the rings.

“You’re getting better,” Claude said, when she ran out of arrows. Amina jumped and blinked wildly.

“I didn’t see you there,” she said.

“Are you feeling better?” Claude asked.

“No.” Blunt as ever. Claude walked up behind her and ruffled her hair. She ducked and slapped at his hands. “What do you want? I thought you were busy making sure that mole people don’t attack us at the ball.”

“I think we’ll be safe,” Claude said. “I wanted to check up on my favorite daughter. Anything we should talk about?” Amina shrugged. “Heard you ran away from school again. I figured that maybe we should discuss that.”

“No,” Amina said. “I think we need to discuss something else.” Blue-green eyes honed on his. “I want to know why my mother was forgotten.”

Claude laughed nervously. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, in Almyra, no one speaks of her,” Amina said. “Nader once told me she was cursed, and so everyone banished her memory. Is that true?”

“Look, we’ve spoken about your mother before,” Claude said. “And I don’t know what to tell you that we haven’t talked about before—”

“Is she still alive?”

Claude floundered. He had not expected this line of questioning. “To the best of my knowledge, yes.”

“Why did she leave?”

“It’s complicated, Amina,” Claude said. “I am not sure if now is the right time to—“

“I have a memory,” Amina said. “I have a strange, distant memory, and I can’t tell if it’s real or not. But I remember drowning, and the green light and then…” She hesitated. “I remember mother pulling me from the water, and…then she left, didn’t she? Did she leave because of me?”

Claude blew out a puff of air. Footsteps broached into the training ground. Claude could not help but dart his eyes. These were things that prying ears could not hear.

“Here’s the deal, Amina,” Claude said. “We’ll talk about this tonight in our chambers. I will tell you what I know about where your mother went. But Amina…I don’t think I have the answers you want.”

Amina sighed. She went to the target and yanked out her arrows. “Whatever.” She stalked off the ground, nearly crashing into Lysithea as she did so. Claude sighed. The last person he wanted to see now. 

“Back to the grind, eh?” Claude asked. “What’s new?”

“What’s new?” Lysithea hurled. “Have you heard the slander that Fraldarius is spreading about me?”

Claude’s brows rose. “Yeah, he’s just upset about the attack the other day.”

Lysithea rolled her jaw. “One of his would-be assassins told him that I am randomly detaining people, and he believes them. A child at that! That child’s parents were breaking the law, and I have every right as Spymaster to apprehend them!”

“I know,” Claude said, exhausted. “I heard this all already.” 

“And yet you did not support me?” Lysithea crossed her arms. “For my office to do its work properly, I need the utter compliance of the Faerghus corps. I need your backing.”

“Look, Lys, I don’t think now is the time to quibble about this,” Claude said. “Things are tense enough as it is. Let Felix do his thing. Just stay out of this one.”

“Just staying out of it would completely undermine my position and the authority of Triumvirate. I thought we were supposed to be working together!”

“Lysithea, this is not helping matters,” Claude said tersely.

Lysithea set her mouth in a rigid line. She did not pursue the matter further, but her expression warned Claude more trouble was on the horizon.

“Claude, what was wrong with Amina?”

“Just an angsty teenager, you know how they are.”

“I heard her asking about her mother.”

 _Shoot_. Last thing Claude wanted was Lysithea poking her nose into business where it didn’t belong. But perhaps Claude could swing this to his father. If Lysithea was going to bring out the accusations, then he had a few of his own to try.

“Family business,” Claude said. “It really isn’t anything.”

“Sensitive subject, I suppose?”

“Rather like that husband of yours we never met,” Claude said. Lysithea flinched. “Sensitive subject, I suppose?”

“I find it interesting Claude that you are using the subject of my late husband to escape the subject of your missing wife,” Lysithea said. “Or did you think that nobody noticed? I don’t think there’s a single person in this castle who doesn’t believe that Byleth went to Almyra after her disappearance.”

“Well she’s certainly not there now, so you can give this up.”

“Does Amina know?”

“This has nothing to do with Amina.”

“I think she would disagree,” Lysithea purred. “Did she not tell you about the boy who came into town with her? I thought that you might recognize him.”

“You know, ever since you came out of retirement, you’ve been so…different. The others might not notice, but I do.”

“Your little disaster is running free, Claude,” Lysithea mocked. “And there’s only one way to stop him.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about—”

“Stop playing coy.” Lysithea was never tall, but boy did she seemed to loom now. Was it a trick of the eye or did the shadows grow higher around her?

“You know, you’re right, Lysithea, we should stop playing coy. Which reminds me,” Claude said. “A few months before Linhardt escaped his prison, you and Byleth went to interview him, right? I remember it was supposed to be very hush hush.”

If looks could kill…Lysithea’s glare burned holes into Claude’s skin. He smirked.

Claude continued: “I remember it very clearly. Byleth had some questions about his research into crest, and you were very interested in that subject yourself. So despite the fact that he was under a no-contact order, you two both departed to speak with him. Byleth made me swear not to tell a soul. Afterwards, you did too.”

“I don’t recall that particular incident,” Lysithea said. “But you cannot distract me from the question at hand. Where is your son, Claude? Enough of your foolish games. More is at stake here than you realize.”

“How about another one?” Claude asked. “Linhardt disappeared, and you suddenly were incapacitated with a mysterious condition. Refused to see anyone. Allowed Marianne and Lorenz in just long enough to establish an alibi, then cast them out. But you told Byleth the truth, and Byleth told me everything. Prove it to me now. Tell me. What was it that kept you confined?”

“I hardly see how this is relevant. You’re distracting—”

“Well, it is simple,” Claude said. “You asked where my child is. I’m asking where yours is. The one that you gave birth to exactly nine months after that visit with Linhardt.”

“Theo is—”

“Too young as is, I now realize, Corisande.” Claude stepped forward. Lysithea backed against the targets until they spilled over. “Strange, do you not remember that as well?”

“What do you want?” Lysithea hissed. “For me not to reveal the fact that you were responsible for Byleth’s disappearance? That she ran off to Almyra to play house with you while Fodlan burned? Or that you two bred a little archfiend, dooming the whole world because of your selfishness?”

“Call me crazy,” Claude said. “But I don’t think you’re the real Lysithea.”

Lysithea sighed. “You’ve always been so obnoxious, Riegan. I won’t mourn you.” Dark webs of magic crawled out from her feet. Claude skittered backwards. He snatched Amina’s abandoned bow on the ground and glanced around for an arrow. The only ones were those scattered by the target. Claude ducked for them, but a wall of darkness shot up before him. Claude used his bow to deflect the magic.

Backing against the wall, Claude sought any means of escape. He was unarmed, facing an opponent wielding powerful magic. His best chance was to escape and alert the castle.

At this moment, a familiar face entered the training grounds.

“Ashe!” Claude cried. “We need to alert Dimitri and call the guards.”

Ashe calmly looked between Claude and Lysithea.

“What seems to be the trouble here?”

Claude grabbed at Ashe. He tried to push him back out of the door. “Get the guards!”

A sharp pain spiked Claude’s abdomen. He staggered backwards, staring down at the blood blooming through his shirt. Ashe handled the other end of the knife, which he then twisted in Claude’s gut. The pain blinded Claude. He fell backwards onto the pavement of the training grounds.

“Wait,” Lysithea—not Lysithea—commanded. “Don’t kill him yet.”

“Why not?” Ashe asked.

“Because,” Lysithea said. The world was swimming in Claude’s eyes. The pain in his gut radiated outwards to the rest of his body. He could barely keep his head up. “He knows where the Archbishop is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoo, boy, I hope you are ready for TWO whole chapters devoted to the ball. Next chapter, Felix recruits Leonie to help with ball security, Ferdinand and Annette finally return to Fhirdiad, Anton reveals the truth to Selma, and Uncle Jeritza comes to the rescue.


	11. Uninvited Guests

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the morning of the Royal Ball, and security is at all time high. As Anton reveals his identity to Selma, Felix works to protect the castle. Ferdinand and Annette return to the palace and confront Corisande about her mother while Ashe and Jeritza discover they're not the only ones who have infiltrated the catacombs.

“Hey, Felix, do you need any help with security?”

Felix scowled. Where did Leonie even come from? She had popped from thin air, with that hungry look in her eye.

“No, go away.” Felix tried to slip away. Leonie followed him like a sick puppy.

“Are you sure? Because if you hire me, I can—”

Felix spun on heel and walked off into the opposite direction. Leonie tried to chase after him, but a hulking shadow turning the corner made her slink back. Oh no. She tried to run away, but Raphael’s voice caught her.

“Hey, Leonie, there you are,” Raphael said. “If I didn’t know, I’d say you were avoiding me!” Raphael’s boom filled the room. Leonie smiled nervously.

“Of course not! I am real sorry, though. I still don’t have the money to pay off my tab yet, but I’m working really hard, and soon I’ll be able to pay you in full. With interest!” Damnit. Why did she say that? She wasn’t even close to paying off the principal.

“Your tab? Oh man, I forgot about that.”

 _Shoot, shoot, you had to go and remind him_.

“I was trying to get Felix to hire me, but I don’t think he trusts any of us from Leicester,” Leonie said. “And I thought if he did, I’d be able to pay you off finally.

“Really, Leonie, don’t worry about that,” Raphael said. “What’s a few drinks between friends?”

Guilt washed over Leonie. How could she have mistrusted Raphael? The poor lunk always thought the best of her, perhaps undeservedly. She was a failed mercenary who had never managed to scrape enough money to pay off all her debts, and despite her wealthy connections, Leonie had no business sense herself. She often felt like greened copper in a gilded world. All her old school friends glistened and gleamed, and here she was, bent and spoiled by the hard life.

But if there was one thing stronger than Leonie’s guilt, it was Leonie’s pride.

“I cannot accept that,” Leonie said. “I _will_ pay you back.”

“You know, Leonie, if you ever needed money—”

Leonie’s ears went hot. Over the years, she had this same conversation with Claude and Lorenz and Marianne and even Hilda. It embarrassed her that they thought her some sort of charity case. She might not have had their privilege, but she could not stand the idea of their pity.

“I’m fine, Raphael,” Leonie said. “It’s bad enough that Hilda is dressing me for this ball.”

It had been Hilda’s insistence. Weeks ago, when Leonie first appeared at Fodlan’s Locket, Hilda had slyly slid into her room. _“Hey, Leonie, you probably don’t have anything to wear yet for the ball, do you? You’re not going to wear that ratty old armor, are you? Oh no, let me make you something. Please, please, please?”_ At the time, Leonie had managed to convince herself that a frugal decision. It wasn’t charity because Hilda enjoyed designing and sewing clothing. Now, Leonie wished she had stuck to her original refusal. She only had a momentary glimpse of Hilda’s creation, but suffice to say, there were more ruffles than Leonie had ever worn in her life.

“Aw, you’re going to look great,” Raphael said. “Hilda’s got a real eye for fashion so—”

“Ugh, that’s the problem.” Leonie cringed under a cold sweat. If only Felix would hire her. She could pay Raphael back honestly then, and she would have a good excuse for refusing Hilda’s abomination.

Amina von Riegan suddenly burst into the hallway. “Raphael! Leonie!” Leonie praised the girl’s timing. Perhaps there was still time to make a graceful exit. “Have you seen my father?”

“Not that I can think of, kiddo,” Raphael said.

“I haven’t seen him in two days,” Amina said. “I think he’s avoiding me.”

“Nonsense,” Raphael said. “I’m sure he’s just busy with ball stuff.”

“I think I saw him floating around somewhere with Lysithea,” Leonie said. “Probably trying to mediate whatever spat she’s having with Felix.”

Amina pursed her lips. The girl hardly looked ready for a ball. In a pair of crumpled shorts and with her hair unbrushed, it was easy to believe the rumors about her maternal lineage.

“He’s avoiding me. I know he is,” Amina said. “He was supposed to talk to me by now. He promised to--” She stopped and in a huff, crossed her arms and tapped her foot. “Never mind.” 

“Hey, Mina, it’s a rough time for your dad,” Raphael said. “How about you and I go and train down at the—"

“No,” Amina said, already backing down the hall. “He can’t get away from me. I’m going to find him.”

Raphael expressed a rare grimace as Amina scampered down the hall. “That poor girl…” he murmured under his breath. Leonie sighed too. Raphael’s concern touched her. He was a good man. That only fixed Leonie’s resolve further.

He deserved to have his tab paid.

* * *

The man who opened the Breslin’s apartment door was a stranger, wolfishly grinning at Anton. His eyes traveled up and down Anton’s body, as though appraising a hunk of meat.

“Oh, my uncle’s not going to like you,” he said with a smirk.

“You must be Hassan,” Anton said. Meeting this new relative did nothing to ease his nerves. Sweaty and trembling, he cut a poor figure for Hassan, who appeared ready to devour Anton up. “Enjoying Fhirdiad?” Anton fumbled a smile. This made Hassan laugh.

“Out of the way, Hassan!” Geb jostled his way to the door. “Excellent, Danny, excellent. You ready to give up the gig, yet?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well who are you!” Geb said. “I’ve got money riding on this, you know.” Anton forced his way into the apartment. Selma was sitting at her window, her dark hair loose around her shoulders. She appeared just as mortified as Anton, wearing a plain dress that wrinkled under her hands’ iron grip.

“Everything is ready for you,” Anton said. “My Aunt Hilda even found something for you to wear.” He tried to sound gallant.

“Daaaaanny,” Geb whined. “I want to know your real identity.”

“A gentleman never reveals,” Anton said. “You’re a shit secret keeper anyways.”

Geb gasped in indignation. “I’m an excellent secret keeper. You cannot even fathom what type of secrets that I keep.”

“Yeah, yeah. You ready, Sellie?”

This whole time, Hassan watched Anton carefully. There was something interesting about Hassan that Anton could not quite put his finger on— ghost of familiarity that was just beyond comprehension, a sense of unease perpetuated by the stories that Raul had told. That stupid grin didn’t do anything to help. Hassan was so damned amused by the whole thing.

Selma stood up from her seat. “Yes, let’s get a move on.”

“Unfair!” Geb called after them as they left the apartment. “Cruel and unjust! Danny!”

Once they were out on the street, Anton began to relax a little. Selma appeared just as nervous as him. Goddess, why had he agreed to this?

“So…am I just supposed to guess who you are?” Selma asked.

“Yeah, guess!” Anton said. “I want to know how much trouble I’m in when you find out the truth.”

“Well, I’ve got the hint that you’re probably nobility,” Selma said. “Probably from a really scummy house, huh, if you don’t want me to know.”

“Let’s wait until we’re out of Waterside.”

They made it all the way to Tailorsgate before Anton broke. He found a spot out of the way of the celebrations, shielded by trees. This was hard. He should have practiced. How is there a good way to tell someone you’re a prince?

“So my real name,” he began unsteadily, “is Anton.”

“Anton?” Selma said. “Anton…Anton…” She was searching for that name in her memory. Anton braced. He should just be out with the truth, but her face suddenly crinkled. “Not…no…” She laughed, as though it was a joke.

“Yeah,” he said lamely.

“Not Prince Anton though,” Selma said, still wanting to believe that this was some prank. Anton could not face her. He stared off into the pile of leaves at his feet.

“Prince Anton Edmund Blaiddyd,” he said. “Yes. I am.”

Selma said nothing. Her silence carried all the fear and rage that he felt she must hold. Cautiously, he snuck a peek at her face. Her hands had covered her mouth.

“No, no,” she said. “Danny…No. Tell me the truth.”

“That’s is the truth, Sellie.”

Her eyes grew large and round. “You’re a Blaiddyd.” It was a whisper at first. Then she repeated it again, louder: “You’re a Blaiddyd. This is so much worse than I could have ever imagined.”

That hurt. Anton cringed. He knew this was coming. Selma was Adrestian. She held the same anti-monarchial views as Anton had proclaimed a hundred times. So why did it pain him so much to hear her say it?”

“So what is this whole Daniel thing?” she asked angrily. Anton had seen Selma angry before. Her eyes would narrow and her whole body straighten, as though she were preparing for an attack. This was different. Her eyes stayed open in disbelief, searching Anton’s face for some sort of answer that would make everything better.

“Hear me out, all right?” Anton took a deep breath. _Speak slowly,_ he thought, _take time to explain it authentically._ “Daniel was me. Daniel was really me. Daniel is the me that is not restrained by court politics or harangued by his mad father. All those things that I told you, that was truly who I am.”

Once again, Selma collapsed into that damnable silence. Her back slammed against a tree, and he almost thought he heard the word Blaiddyd hiss from her lips like a curse.

Anton continued: “In that palace, I am expected to be someone else. To be my father or at least a saner version of my father. I am crushed by expectations defined by the previous generation that I, at my core, disagree with. Do you know what that is like? To have to constantly put another self on parade?”

Selma laughed. It was a broken laugh—squeezed between a sigh and what might have been a sob. But it confused Anton all the same.

“You know what,” she said, standing suddenly upright. “I do. Better than you might think.” Her whole body shuddered in a sigh. “Let’s just get this over with then. Will I have to meet your parents?”

“Uh….probably,” Anton said. “They’re just happy I have friends, I think. I made my father promise that he would be on his best behavior. Besides, there are all sorts of threats and alarms right now with the Edelgardians, so who knows? They might be too distracted to bother us.”

They began walking towards the palace again.

“I cannot believe you did not prepare me for the fact that I will be meeting the King of Faerghus tonight,” Selma said shakily. “Although I suppose this explains your daddy issues.”

“You’re not mad, are you?” Anton said.

“Oh, I’m mad,” Selma said. “And so many other things too. Scared mostly. But for the sake of everyone in my life, I am trying not to freak out right now.” Anton wanted to thank her. Perhaps he would at the end of the night. This was definitely the last time he would ever see Selma again. Would Geb even want to associate with him? They had written tracts upon tracts together on the evils of monarchy, and here Anton’s very existence could undermine everything Geb worked for.

“Hey,” Anton said, trying to be light, “I really look forward to the day that you and Geb rise up and stick my head on a pike.”

“Geb is going to have a party with this,” Selma said. “Well, Hassan was right about one thing,” They were approaching the drawbridge that led to the palace. Traffic crowded the streets waiting for entry. “My father would kill you.”

Anton laughed. “You know, at least I’m being honest in the end. Everything I told you was the truth, just with different names. You talk about your parents so little, they could be royalty too for all I know.”

Selma’s responding laugh was shrill and short. “Ha! You don’t want to meet my parents, Danny.” She almost sounded nervous. “Sorry, Prince Anton? Your majesty? What do I even call you anymore?”

“You can call me Danny or Anton,” Anton said. “If you use an honorific, I swear I might just abandon you with my father all night.”

Selma eyed the gate to the castle. “What can I expect in there?”

“If we’re lucky, some awkward dances and too much wine,” Anton said. Truth be told, he wasn’t quite certain himself anymore. “Everyone is on high alert, though. Don’t be surprised if you’re followed all evening by guards.”

“Great. Like a criminal.”

“No, like royalty. That’s part of the gig.”

Selma hugged herself. “Tell me, Anton, is your father really like all the stories?”

Anton ran a hand through his hair. “He’s stern and very stubborn. He takes the idea of noble governance very seriously. But is he stark raving mad all the time? No. But recently, he has not been well, but I doubt you’ll see that side of him.” He tried to manage a smile. “But he won’t kill you, which I hear is an improvement on your father.”

Selma did not laugh at this. Those green eyes zeroed in on the castle walls, staring up into the thick, impenetrable stone and its towering parapets. Perhaps he had made a mistake. She was not just nervous or mad. She was truly and deeply scared.

* * *

Annette and Ferdinand should have made it back to Fhirdiad rather quickly, yet their journey home had been one obstruction after another. Ferdinand’s horse threw a shoe, and they had to wait in the small town of Dreckshold for the farrier to make his rounds. Despite Ferdinand’s insistence, there were no other horses to spare, and so they had to wait.

Once they returned back to the road, they found themselves beset by the same sluggish checkpoints as the rest of the populace, and without an army to clear out the roads, they were moving exceptionally slowly.

When they finally arrived at the castle on the day of the ball, everything was already in tumult. Immediately, knights and officers assaulted Ferdinand with news. Ward pads found in the stables! An ambush on Raphael and Amina von Riegan! An assassination attempt in the Waterside district! So much had happened since they left that Ferdinand head was beginning to swim with the details.

No, he needed to focus. There was one thing he had to take care of and soon.

But Ferdinand could not find Lysithea—rather, he could not find the woman who claimed to be Lysithea. Ferdinand and Annette had debated for the length of their long journey who this imposter could be. An Agarthan seemed likely, but as Annette pointed out, there was no proof that the gravestone meant Lysithea was buried there. Perhaps a shred of hope could exist, no matter how meager.

As Ferdinand stormed through the hallways, Annette trailed behind him, tripping into every rug and table along the way. No one could tell them where Lysithea was. Not even Corisande, who they found skulking near the library.

“Mother is busy with Duke Riegan,” she said. “You can see her at the ball tonight.”

“That is unacceptable,” Ferdinand said. “This is an emergency and—” Suddenly, he had another idea. Perhaps it was not wise to just attack Lysithea. Corisande could tell him the truth.

He grabbed her arm and pulled her towards one of the book carrells that lined the library’s wall. She shrieked and wrenched her arm, trying to get away. Inside the small dark room, Ferdinand sat her down at the desk. Annette followed in and quickly closed the door.

“Corisande, we just returned from the Rhodos coast, from the Breslin homestead. Does that name sound familiar?”

Corisande went limp in her chair. She refused to look at him.

Ferdinand continued: “I can understand your reservations about trusting me, considering who your father is. You likely believe that I would have harmed your parents, but I was very dear friends with them.”

She stood like a statue. Eyes clouded over as she completely withdrew into herself. Did she even hear Ferdinand?

“I need you to answer a question for me,” Ferdinand said, “one that can help us prevent a catastrophe.” Ferdinand felt a rush of grief. So strong had been his desire to return that he had barely mourned someone who he had once considered friend. Asking the question almost broke him. “Is your mother dead?”

Corisande looked at him with horror. So she was listening. “What are you talking about?” she said uneasily. “My mother is here.”

“So why did I find her grave out in the Rhodos coast?” Ferdinand asked. He needed to press more, so she added, “Geb told me about the house. He sent me there. I think he trusts me.” That was likely too strong of a word to describe Geb’s errand, but it worked. Corisande melted before him. “What happened to your mother?”

“They killed her,” Corisande said in a whisper so light that her lips didn’t even touch.

“And they took you and your brother,” Ferdinand asked. Corisande nodded. Ferdinand geared up to leave. “We need to tell Dimitri and Claude—”

Corisande grabbed his sleeve. “You fool. You have no idea how deeply she’s entrenched in this place.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Ferdinand said. “If we reveal what she is—”

“Go then. Tell Claude. Just leave Geb out of it. When Pythia realizes that you’ve found her out, she’ll have you killed, replaced, and then she’ll go after him.”

“Claude won’t let that happen—”

Corisande laughed her strange laugh. “You think she’s the only rat in this court? You’re too late to save Claude.” Annette gasped. Chills sunk through Ferdinand’s bones. “And if you accuse her without evidence, the new Claude will rush to her defense. Could start a war between the Alliance and the Republic. Gee, wouldn’t that be convenient for them?”

Ferdinand found his nerves. Steeling himself, he banished temporarily the paralyzing fear that Corisande’s revelation sparked. Instead, he asked in a grave tone: “what are their plans?”

“Depends on how the ball goes,” Corisande said. “What they really want to find a good opportunity to replace Dimitri, but his wife and retainer always seem to be around him. So that doesn’t work, it’s war then. Either they’ll use Edelgard or Claude or both now that they have them.”

“What do we do?” Annette asked. “If we can tell Dimitri—”

“What you should be doing,” Corisande said, “is finding your friend Fraldarius. I’m quite certain he is next.”

Annette covered her mouth. “Felix!” she said through her hands.

“Are there any others lying in wait?” Ferdinand asked.

“The one called Ashe Ubert,” Corisande said. It was a good thing Annette was muffling herself because her gasps were becoming increasingly strident. “His real name is Trophonius. He’s a powerful technomancer but sloppy, so you’ll probably catch him tripping before Pythia. The one masquerading as Claude is Menestheos. Very cautious. I’m certain he was chosen for that reason, but he’s not as frightening as the others.”

“Is that all?” Ferdinand asked.

“You mean other than the guards and servants?”

Ferdinand never cursed, but he was coming close. “Corisande, I swear to you that we will rescue you from their grasp. Your brother Geb is here for you, I understand. I wish for you to be reunited. But I need you to work with us. Put aside whatever mistrust you feel, and we will reunite you with your brother.”

“I will assist you with exterminating the rats, but understand this: I know you’ve been searching for my father,” Corisande said. “I was raised to trust only my family, and you are _not_ my family. I do not wish for you to rescue me, and I do not wish for you to interfere with my brother. And I would rather waste away never seeing my family again than ever tell you where my father is.”

“So you do know.”

Corisande shrugged. “If you keep me in here, Pythia will get suspicious.”

There was no use in pushing her now. Felix would deal with Lysithea first and then perhaps that would warm the girl to him.

Ferdinand gestured to Annette, and Annette held open the door. Corisande slipped out delicately, her face ironed smooth of any distress. If only Annette and Ferdinand were so lucky. Annette shut the door again and collapsed against it.

“Our friends…” Annette’s voice cracked. “What are we going to do, Ferdinand? What if we’re too late for Felix too?”

Ferdinand’s mind raced. “We’ll have to work quickly and discreetly. If we intercept her plans on Felix, perhaps we’ll get the evidence we need to expose all of them.”

Time was working against them. The clock was quickly moving. If they were going to do this, they had to do it soon.

* * *

Another deadend.

Jeritza kicked an ancient pillar holding up the ceiling. The base cracked, and the whole shaft trembled. Loose dust rained over their heads.

“I thought you knew your way through these vents,” he seethed. Ashe was pretty handy in a fight, but he didn’t want to take on the death knight in close quarters while still recovering from a cracked rib and bruised skull.

“I said that I knew a way into the castle existed,” Ashe said. “I’ve never actually been down here.” He held his arms over his head just in case the whole ceiling caved. “I don’t think many people have been down here recently.”

“We must be getting close,” Jeritza said. “We must!” He made another swing for the pillar. Deeper cracks fractured its hold.

“Well, let’s keep moving.” Ashe turned back to the main artery of the catacomb, where they had split off only a few minutes before. “We’ll get nowhere fast if we take out our anger on the walls.” It was hard to bite his tongue. His body still ached in several places, and they had run out of food. Jeritza had caught actual rats for dinner the previous night, but it was not enough to settle Ashe’s stomach. Woozy hunger and the pain of his injuries cast a haze over his mind.

“We are running out of time.” Jeritza quickly surpassed Ashe in the hallway. Ashe wished he could walk faster, but he still lacked his full energy.

“You don’t think I know that,” Ashe said. “It’s not your partner who is sharing a bed with a damn clone.” Dedue was almost in reach yet so far away. Ashe just wanted to see him again, to feel his arms, to know that he had survived.

“My sister,” Jeritza hissed, “is in their grasp as well.”

They were broaching the fork in the road. Lights glowed from the end of one path, but Ashe didn’t notice this. He was too busy trying to stave off the cold feeling in his limbs and the warm rage boiling in his belly.

“You haven’t seen your sister in years,” Ashe said. “If you really cared, wouldn’t you have tried to reach out before now? My beloved could die, or worse, be already replaced—”

Suddenly, Jeritza’s gauntlet slapped down on Ashe’s mouth. Panic flooded Ashe. His instinct was to wrench his elbow into Jeritza’s stomach, but his bones just knocked into Jeritza’s steel plate.

“Sh!” Jeritza paused. Then Ashe heard it: footsteps, followed by indistinct chatter. An unsettling grin widened across Jeritza’s face. Jeritza released Ashe. Like a cat on the prowl, he hunkered low and sidled up along the corner of the tunnel. Ashe waited where Jeritza had dumped him, trying to slow his heart so that he could hear what was being said.

“You think I’ll let you get away that easy, kid?” the voice said. “You do as I say or I’ll gut your mommy and daddy like a fish.”

“I told you, I don’t know where these tunnels go!” The voice was young, male, and desperate. Ashe frowned. He knew that voice.

“You knew where all the other tunnels in the castle went!”

“I don’t know! I’ve never seen this place!”

“Look, kid,” snarled the voice, “tonight, you’re going to make sure that our special guest makes it to the ball, you got that? Or I’ll hang you from the towers by your ankles. So if I were you, I would start trying to figure out your way through here.”

Ashe heard a sob from the child. He inched along the wall until he could catch sight of the figure. His stomach dropped. It was him—he was staring at a version of himself. Unlike his current battered state, his clone was clean and held a striking posture over a wisp of blond hair. Ashe squinted. Was that…

“Jeritza,” he whispered. “Jeritza, that boy…”

“He’s working with the Agarthans,” Jeritza said. “I don’t like witnesses. We will have to get rid of them both.”

Ashe went to his knees. He crawled in the dirt until he was face to face with Jeritza. He spoke quickly and hushed: “You don’t understand. That boy is your nephew.” It took a moment for understanding to dawn over Jeritza’s face. “That’s Mercedes’ son.”

Jeritza’s tune changed with the knowledge. A darkness tinged his expression. His lips curled in both glee and rage. “I will gut the bastard that uses my sister’s child so poorly.”

The Death Knight stood. He took his helmet and slid it over his head.

“Where are you going?” Ashe asked.

“To finish this.”

Jeritz slipped from Ashe’s grip in a quiver of shadow and manifested just a little bit further ahead. The squeal of his armored plates rubbing together made the false Ashe’s head swivel.

“Well, well, what do we have here?” he said. “The horned devil himself. Funny that you find me here when I can’t even find my own fucking way out.”

Jeritza dragged the blade of his sword from the sheath. “Enough. You will die.”

Trophonius’ laughter resonated through the catacombs. “You old coot. Let’s see you try.”

Jeritza snarled as he lunged. Trophonius wisped away in a circle of darkness. With every swing, Trophonius popped away in a flutter of magic. Jeritza’s frustrated grunts made him laugh and laugh until Trophonius’ cheeks were wet with mirth.

“Not the Death Knight I was taught to fear,” he taunted. “Perhaps we ought to take you out to pasture.” Jeritza backed him against a pillar and thrust the sword forward. The sword lodged into the pillar, and more dust shook down upon them. Trophonius appeared behind him.

Unarmed, injured, and useless, Ashe glanced around for some sort of weapon that he could use. Mortar crumbled between the ancient bricks in the walls. Ashe began scraping at the loose plaster to loosen a single brick. He managed to wriggle free a block.

The false Ashe had turned his back to him. “Now’s its my turn,” he taunted Jeritza. Black spheres widened in his hand. Aphotic sparks sizzled and snapped as the darkness widened from his hands. Lukas screamed again.

Ashe lifted the brick above his head and brought it crashing down on Trophonius’ skull.

The magic spell released prematurely. A blast of wind struck Ashe’s face with acute heat that singed his eyebrows. The force pushed him back onto the ground. Trophonius groaned, head in his hands. He spun around, looming over Ashe. Ashe tried to stand, but all his wounds reawakened. His bruised ribs suffocated his lungs in pain, and his shoulder had wrenched out of place.

“Aw, shit,” Trophonius said, sucking in labored breaths. “You’re supposed to be dead.”

“I’m harder to kill then you might think,” Ashe said, more bravely than he felt.

“Oh, I’m not so sure about that,” Trophonius said. The spheres reignited in his palms. “I’ll send you to where the sun don’t—”

Jeritza’s sword gouged through Trophonius’ stomach. Ashe stared into his own green eyes as they bulged in horror. Jertiza planted a foot on his back and yanked out his sword. Trophonius crumpled forward on his knees. His skin began to ripple. Muscles bulged and flattened into new shapes. The color leeched from his skin and hair until they were the palest, starkest white.

For the first time, Ashe looked upon the true appearance of the man who had stolen his face. Moon-white hair crowned a high forehead. Faint adumbrations in his eyes revealed the suggestion of an iris and pupil—but without the color. The unnatural pallor of his complexion—like freshly powdered snow—only now blushed with the blood that seeped freely from his wound.

Trophonius caught a deep breath and tried to stand. Jeritza brought down his sword like an executioner. The blade cut cleanly through the technomancer’s neck. Trophonius’ head flew off and rolled in the dust of the dirt.

Lukas only stopped screaming to catch his breath. “Ashe?” he asked uncertainly.

“It’s me,” Ashe said. “The real me.” Bile burbled in his stomach and burned his throat. He just might be sick. He kept seeing the sight of his own eyes locked in a death gaze.

Jeritza stalked over the head and picked it up by the hair. Lukas shrieked again and scrambled to get as far away as possible from the Death Knight.

Ashe rose unsteadily to his feet. “It’s okay you can trust him.”

“Who is he?” Lukas asked.

“He’s your Uncle.”

Lukas screamed again.

* * *

Almost as soon as Selma entered the palace, a swarm of servants had torn her away from Anton and bustled her into a room, where somebody had hung a gown of dark red silk, trimmed with black fur. Selma had never worn anything so delicate or fine. The servants divested her of her working garments. She was shoved into a white smock and itchy hose, before they shimmied the gown over her head. The neckline plunged so deep that Selma blushed, but the color quickly faded as the maids tightened the laces and squeezed the air from her lungs.

There were so many decorations to wear. Armlets over her upper arms; a torc of gold and silver chains wound together; a pearl comb to pin her hair back; and a jeweled cuff on her wrist. The slippers took more trouble to find. The maids tried several before one pair fit, and even then it pinched her toes and rubbed blisters into her heels.

Staring in the mirror, Selma got a glimpse of what might have been hers in a different life.

“Wow, you look different.”

Selma spun around. “Is that what you say? Not you’re gorgeous Selma. Just…you’re different?” Anton cheeks rouged. He too had changed outfits: a silk doublet of dark indigo threaded with gold ornamentations on the sleeves, a chain of gold medallions around the neck, and rings upon his fingers. Selma tugged at the small ponytailed, held together with a bowed ribbon. “What’s this? You look better with your hair down.”

Anton grinned. He too reached for a strand of hair. Save for a few strands pulled back from her face and twisted into the pearl comb, her hair stayed long. “As do you.”

“Careful.” She slapped his hand away. “If you so much as breathe on my hair, that comb will fall.”

“I’m really sorry about all this you know,” Anton said. “I’ve been thinking, and I realize that it was probably not fair on you to spring this on you like this. I just thought that if you and Geb knew…well, I was scared of losing my best friends. My only friends”

Selma had expected Anton to transform into someone else within the walls of the palace, but other than his garish costume, he spoke the same and held himself the same and expressed sincerity the same. Could Selma blame him? If he knew about her…

“Let’s just try to enjoy the evening,” Selma said.

“Yeah, about that.” Anton swallowed hard. “I’m really really sorry. I had no idea about this I swear.”

“What’s wrong?”

“My parents want to meet you privately over drinks.”

His parents: that meant Mad King Dimitri himself. If anyone could expose Selma for what she really was, it was probably him. Selma took a deep breath to expel her fear. It failed.

“I made my father swear that he wasn’t going to harass you,” Anton said. “And the things I promised to do to ensure your comfort—things that go against my very being, Selma! I’m going to open a new school. I have to attend all of the Saint’s days ceremonies as the royal officiant for the next year. I have to be a prince—a real prince for once. That all just to buy you one good night.”

Selma laughed. It broke the tension somewhat. “Should we get it over with?”

Anton looped his arm into hers. “Lets.”

Anton guided Selma to an intimate chamber flanked with sigils of the lion. When Selma entered the room, his wife—Anton’s mother, she realized—was fussing with the collar of a tall, yellow-haired man. It took her a moment to realize that these were the King and Queen of Faerghus. 

Selma wasn’t certain what she had expected from King Dimitri. His image festooned every print shop, church, and registrar in Fhirdiad. In those images, he was carefully drawn, his hair made more golden, his skin more lustered, his one good eye blue as lapis lazuli. In the flesh, he appeared like an older, more scarred version of Anton. His hair was slightly mussed; his eye patch, more prominent. He hardly looked like the beast of her parents’ stories growing up. There was no foaming at the mouth, no bloodshot eyes, not even the scraggly hair.

“Mother, Father,” Anton announced. Queen Marianne abandoned her task and smiled. Dimitri turned towards her, his good eye landing upon her. Selma felt a spike of fear at that gaze. “This is my friend Selma Breslin.” Anton sounded nervous too. She had never heard him like this before.

“Your majesties,” Selma said, trying to remember how to bow. No, curtsey! She was supposed to curtsey! Damnit, she had messed up already.

“Oh, please do, relax,” Marianne said. They had set up a small table with tipples of brandy and assorted antipasto. Selma’s stomach was clenching so tightly, she doubted she would manage even a swallow. Anton held her seat out for her, which seemed like such a strange nicety. If they were at one of the coffeehouses, she might have teased him for it, but here, he was playing his nice princely role. Selma didn’t know how to play her own character anymore.

Dimitri was studying her carefully. Selma could not read his steely expression. The panic kept rising inside her. There was no way for him to read her, right? She had to keep reminding herself that he thought she was just some rustic bumpkin.

“Anton tell us you’re from Adrestia,” Dimitri said. His tone was pleasant and deep. Selma nodded. “Where from?”

Selma hesitated. Should she really be telling him of all people? But Danny—no, Anton—knew the truth already. “Rusalka,” she said.

“I am afraid I am not familiar with that region,” Marianne said. Selma marveled at how light and airy her voice sounded.

“Most people aren’t. It’s the most sparsely populated region of Adrestia,” Selma said. “It is very hilly. Apples grow quite well there, though.”

“Ah, yes, you are an apple farmer’s daughter,” Dimitri said. How much had Anton told them? Selma prayed that she had never revealed some slight detail that might give her away. “How quaint.”

“What an idyllic childhood,” Marianne said. “To live in the countryside, surrounded by beautiful trees.”

Selma did not want to disagree with the Queen of Faerghus, but she had considered her childhood rather lonely. Only when Aunt B came into their lives did she ever really meet her cousins, and even then they only visited in the summer. Selma and her sister would fill their days with the same monotony in and out.

“Tell us about your family, Selma,” Dimitri said. This felt like an interrogation. Selma’s cheeks quickly went hot.

“My family?” she squeaked. “Oh, they’re nothing interesting.”

Dimitri’s lips tugged in a suggestion of a frown. “There is no need for self-deprecation. I am sure they are fascinating people. People of the clay and soil are vital to the success of the Triumvirate.”

“Any siblings?” Marianne asked.

“I have a sister,” Selma said. “And my uncle and cousin live with us too, so a full house really.”

“Selma has many aunts and uncles around Fodlan,” Anton said. “Her cousins used to live in Faerghus. She has an aunt who lives in the Oghma Mountains.”

 _Don’t ask about Aunt B. Don’t ask about Aunt B._ Selma had never prayed in her life, and she wasn’t sure how to, but in this moment, she gave it her best shot.

“Oh, I’ve always wondered what brings people to live up there,” Marianne said.

“Doesn’t everyone have a crazy Oghma relative?” Selma asked nervously.

“What brought you to Faerghus then?” Dimitri asked. He leaned back in his seat, folding his hands on his lap, a move that elongated his form and brought attention to the sword sheath strapped to his waist.

“My cousin and I wanted to strike out on our own,” Selma said. “My cousin is a writer, and I am an artist.”

“That must have been scary,” Marianne said.

“Well, you know, it’s as my mother told me before I left Rusalka, you have to cut your own path to the future.”

This made Dimitri’s eyebrow quirk upwards. “Ah, we have the same saying in Faerghus.”

Brusque pounding on the door interrupted their conversation. “Your majesty, your presence has been requested. Margrave Gautier needs your approval on patrol patterns tonight.”

“Very well. I apologize, Miss Breslin, for my abrupt exit.”

“It is no problem, your majesty.” Selma ducked her eyes down to her napkin as the King followed his solider out of the room.

“Well that could have gone worse,” Anton said with a sigh of relief.

“Anton!” Marianne scolded.

Selma tried to catch her breath. That was lucky. That was extremely lucky, but it wasn’t even dark yet, and there was a long night ahead of her.

* * *

First Leonie, and now Annette. Felix wondered if the curse of the ball was to be trailed by overbearing ginger women. Annette was tiny, which made the exuberant volume of her voice all the more surprising.

“This is serious, Felix,” Annette said. “Ferdinand needs to see you immediately.”

“Well, he can wait,” Felix said. “Everything else is high priority too.”

“No, this can’t wait,” Annette said. “Felix! If you don’t come with me right now, I’ll…I’ll…”

“Can it, Annette. I have to ensure that there are no assassins in the castle, that there are no secret warp pads into the castle, that there are no—ow!” He rubbed his arm where Annette had shocked him with a spark of magic. “What was that?”

“That…” Annette wagged her finger and put on her most intimidating voice, “was a warning! Now you better come with me.”

“I could have you detained for that.”

“I’d like to see you try!”

Felix stared her, mouth hanging for a moment. Annette’s glowed with fiery determination.

“Fine. You get fifteen minutes, and if I’m not convinced—”

Annette grabbed his arm and tore him down the hallway. “Well, hurry up then!”

Ferdinand too had been sent on an errand. By the time Annette and Felix joined him, he had fetched Dedue. Dedue waited silently, his brow betraying a wrinkle of concern.

“Good, you are both present,” Ferdinand said. He nodded towards Annette, so slid out the door. “Annette will be our watch. This is highly confidential information, and it must be kept secret until we can root out the source of the problem.”

Felix crossed his arms. “This better be good, Aegir.”

“Shouldn’t his majesty be present—”

“I am revealing this to you because you are the two presently most in danger,” Ferdinand said. “Should Dimitri know too much, he may very well become threatened, and with his fragile state, we cannot risk another episode of his.”

“Go on,” Felix said.

“Agarthans have infiltrated the court,” Ferdinand said, keeping his voice low. “They have already replaced several members of our cohort. Claude, Lysithea, and Ashe have all been compromised.”

Dedue suddenly growled. His fist slammed into a wooden table. The wood smashed into toothpicks under the force of his swing. “I apologize,” he said shakily. “Ashe…I knew something was wrong. I should have gone with him to Gaspard.”

“Lysithea and Claude…how?” Felix asked.

Ferdinand sighed. “Lysithea was killed seven years ago, before she ever came out of retirement. It turns out she did run away with Linhardt after all, but the Agarthans caught them. Claude, we believe was only taken very recently.”

“How do you know this?” Felix pressed.

“I found evidence of Lysithea’s murder in the Rhodos Coast, where she and Linhardt had been hiding. Corisande just confirmed it for me this morning.”

“And Corisande is Lysithea’s real daughter, not one of them.”

“So far as I can tell, yes.”

Dedue was still bent over the broken table. Ferdinand wondered if he was about to cry. He had never seen the stoic giant express much emotion, but the force of the revelation threatened to break the gates.

“We need to act now,” Dedue said. “Kill them before they do any more damage…before they get…” He was panting heavily. “I am sorry. I should be more composed.”

Felix looked towards Dedue with a sorrowful expression. His shoulders drooped. “Dedue, I am so sorry for your loss.”

“As am I,” Ferdinand said. “But we must act quickly. Corisande says that they are trying to take over all of Fodlan. Either they will use their Claude to start a war, use their Edelgard to start a war, or replace Dimitri as well, if they can manage it.”

“No!” Dedue roared. “They will not take Dimitri from me too.”

The door opened. They all froze in shock. Annette slid in quickly. “It’s him! It’s Ashe!”

“This is our moment,” Dedue said. “We must take it now.”

“If we kill the Ashe clone now, we can use that as evidence to root out the others,” Felix said.

A nervous energy pervaded Ferdinand. He was not quite ready to act, but fists knocked at the door. It was him. The Ashe clone.

“Annette, was that you?” asked a woozy voice from the other side. It certainly sounded like Ashe. “Annette, I need help right away.”

They all looked towards Annette. Annette cringed as she opened the door. Ashe nearly fell into the room. Something had happened to him recently. His face was bruised and swollen in places. His clothing reeked; dark spots stained the fabric with dirt or worse. Ashe lurched towards Dedue. Dedue shrunk back. His fists curled.

Just as Annette was about to close the door, fingers wrapped around the edges and shoved it open. A tall figure in black plate strolled in. Ferdinand’s jaw dropped in horror.

“The Death Knight,” Felix howled, unsheathing his sword in a single moment. Jeritza kicked the door closed behind him. He caught Felix’s blade with a gloved hand and pushed it aside. 

“Jeritza, you’re alive,” Ferdinand said.

“von Aegir,” Jeritza said. “You need not be so alarmed. We come in peace.”

“Dedue, please listen to me,” Ashe said. His breath rattled in his ribcage. Dedue edged back against the broken table. “There is an imposter in my place—”

“Right,” Felix said. “An imposter. How do we know you’re not the imposter? You all must be getting very anxious now that Ferdinand has exposed your little gig.”

“I agree,” Ferdinand said. “We cannot trust him or Jeritza.”

“Dedue, no, Dedue, you don’t believe that, do you?”

Dedue searched the face of this Ashe. His whole body had gone rigid, frozen in place as the injured man staggered towards him. Only his face seemed to move— a tremble that made his visage waver between shock and rage.

“Where is my sister?” Jeritza droned casually.

“You really think that we would believe you after everything?” Annette said. “Especially bringing _him_ back here?” Annette was almost too afraid to look at Jeritza.

“Dedue, I swear to you I am faithful,” Ashe said. “I was in Gaspard when they tried to replace me. Jeritza saved me and brought me here.”

“Why would Jeritza do that?” Felix asked. “He was working with them before.”

“I did not work _with_ them. I only worked _for_ them.”

“What is the difference?”

“The difference is that Edelgard promised me their sugar-white heads after the war, and that was a dessert I was going to savor.”

“Please, Dedue,” Ashe said. His head was still swimming. There was a throb in his chest, and he couldn’t tell whether it was his heart or his ribs breaking. “The food you sent with me to Gaspard…the pies and the skewers and the beans. Do you remember that?”

Dedue was still stuck to the ground, as though his feet had been welded to the stone by a strike of lightning. His mouth had fallen open slightly.

“Don’t believe him, Dedue,” Ferdinand said. “The trickery they have been using against us—”

“Where is my sister.” It was no longer a question. Jeritza was demanding.

“You think that will help your case, monster?” Annette asked, fists swinging at her side, as though she was about to lob a punch into the armored giant.

“Her boy saw us kill the clone,” Jeritza said.

Ashe affirmed weakly: “Yes, Lukas, he will tell the truth.” 

Felix scoffed. “Lukas has certainly been spending a lot of time with you, hasn’t he been, Ashe? Mercedes thinks he’s scared of you for some reason.”

“You’ve been using him!” Annette accused.

Dedue suddenly thawed from his frozen state. “If you killed this clone, where is the body?”

The body! Of course. “In the catacombs below the palace,” Ashe said quickly. “Yes, find the body. It is clearly an Agarthan!” Ashe nearly collapsed in relief. Or exhaustion. Or pain. It was difficult to tell anymore.

“I am very sorry,” Dedue said softly. A hand reached for Ashe before retracting quickly. “I hope that you can forgive me,” his voice began to crack, “but I think we must detain you…until…until...” Those seaglass eyes softened as they pored into Ashe’s.

“I see,” Ashe said. His heart ached. His everywhere ached. “May I request one mercy?” Felix’s scoff and Annette’s guffaws softened to a buzz as he looked up at Dedue. It was just the two of them for that sweet, spinning moment. If nothing else, he got to see Dedue again and to ensure that he was safe. “May I see a healer?”

And then he passed out.

* * *

Leonie had finally squeezed into Hilda’s creation. The skirt was intended to suggest the bell of a yellow rose, with the taffeta layers reminiscent of petals. Leonie thought she resembled a cake instead. She couldn’t move her arms because of the tight sleeves, which was a problem because the laces dug into her back and made it itch.

“What the hell.”

Leonie turned.

“Hey, have you heard of knocking?” she asked Felix.

“I got a job for you. Do you want it?”

Relief flooded Leonie. If Felix hadn’t been standing there, she would have ripped the bodice straight off her body.

“Yes. What is it?”

“I need you to go down into the catacombs and find something for us,” Felix said. “Top secret. No one can know. Especially…” He dropped to a whisper, “not Claude or Lysithea.”

Leonie frowned. What kind of job was this? Did they suspect Claude of something?

“I don’t understand—”

“Do you want it or not?” Felix asked brusquely. “Because we’re running out of time.”

“Yes, I’ll take it. What’s the payment?”

“The payment is avoiding war,” Felix said. Leonie pursed her lips and balled her hands on her fists.

“Really?”

Felix studied the outfit. “I suggest you change. You may need a weapon for this one.”

“What’s down in the catacombs?”

“A body. If we’re lucky, an Agarthan one. And if not…” He shrugged. “Get down there, and don’t get lost. Bring back any evidence you can. A head. A limb.”

“That’s it?”

Felix nodded. He waved as he left. “You didn’t hear this from me.” He was gone. Leonie wriggled out of the sleeves. Felix had been so serious and so cryptic that perhaps Leonie should have been afraid. But instead she simply felt the joy of another paid job.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: the ball. Ferdinand confronts Selma; Leonie and Raphael confront Edelgard; and Dimitri confronts his demons.
> 
> Oh, and the apocalypse is triggered.
> 
> To see some amazing Terminus fan art done by Cyranonic, find me [on Twitter! ](https://twitter.com/skreev1)


	12. The Anniversary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Anniversary ball commences. Ferdinand confronts Selma; Leonie and Raphael confront Edelgard; and Dimitri confronts his demons. But nothing goes as planned...

Corisande was too tired to deal with a ball. The whole concept bored her. She never enjoyed dancing. Wine just made her sleepy. And the conversation did nothing to raise her spirits.

But this one at least offered a different sort of amusement.

“Is that who I think it is?” Theo thumbed towards Selma, who paraded on the arm of Prince Anton. Apertifs were served in the Great Hall, as the guests waited to enter the banquet hall.

“So that’s how Geb intends to get in,” Corisande mused. She smoothed down Theo’s white hair. Whispering in his ear, she added, “Be very good tonight. Don’t go blabbing to Lukas and Emma, got it?” Theo nodded glumly.

“Are we going already?” Theo asked.

“Already? We’ve been stuck in this hell for years,” Corisande said.

“It’s not so bad,” Theo said. “If you think about it, this could have been us in another life.”

Corisande scoffed. “It wouldn’t have, Theo. Our parents would have always been on opposite sides of the war. This is not our world.”

The food at these events always made Corisande’s stomach curl. Too salty and savory with all the wrong textures. First course was a cold cucumber soup, second mussels in a thick sauce, followed by jellied eels, roasted swan, and ginger-spiced carrots. Dessert provided some temptation: rosewater cake topped with a marzipan menagerie of lions, deer, and eagles.

Afterwards guests were inducted into the ballroom. Huge banners unfurled from the ceiling, each ornamented with the Crest of Flames. There were speeches to be made before the festivities could begin. Corisande’s job was to look pretty and not reveal Ordelia’s schemes. She watched the event unfold like an opera.

 _Menestheos makes an unconvincing Riegan,_ she thought, sipping punch as the Agarthan stumbled through a speech that the real Riegan would have masterfully performed. No one else seemed to care. _They’re all too drunk to realize what is happening._

Well, not all of them. Lord Fraldarius was watching Claude with a hand on his hilt, and Dedue was keeping his distance. Corisande sought out Ferdinand in the audience. He nodded to her in gratitude. So perhaps they weren’t entirely helpless.

The speeches ended. Polite applause sprinkled the crowd.

Corisande abandoned her glass with a servant and sauntered through the crowd, trying to get close to Selma. A crowd of flatulent nobles crowded her in, picking and prying at the young girl in an attempt to deduce her identity.

 _If only they knew,_ Cora thought smugly. _Now there would be a reason for gossip._

Anton managed to tug Selma way to safety, only to spin around and face Cora.

“Well, well, what do we have here?”

Selma turned. Her expression did not betray any hint of recognition. Officially, they didn’t know each other. Selma had grown even taller than their youth, Corisande thought. She had always been leggy and slender, a stick chasing after their boy cousins. Corisande remembered admiring Selma like an older sister; she always seemed so wise, even when wrangling Geb or Hassan into the mud or chucking apples at them from the orchard.

“Corisande, are you here to blackmail me again?” Anton asked.

“I need to talk to your friend here,” she said.

“No,” Anton said. “What your thing with the Breslins?”

“What is _your_ thing?” Corisande asked. “I bet your father is wondering that.”

“It’s all right.” Selma patted Anton’s arm. “I think your mother was calling for you.”

Anton glanced over his shoulder towards a patiently smiling Marianne. As soon as he left, Corisande wove her arm into Selma’s and guided her away through the crowd, pretending as though they were taking a dainty turn about the room in the way that ladies often did. That bought them a few minutes. Corisande kept her voice low, occasionally fluttering her hands or giggling as to reveal the gravity of their conversation.

“Off to a ball on the arm of a Blaiddyd,” Corisande said. “What would your parents say?”

“I didn’t know he was a Blaiddyd!”

“Mmhm.” Cora’s surveyed the room for traitors. “I assume there’s a plan in place?”

“I have to go let Geb in through the cisterns,” Selma said. “He and Hassan are waiting.”

“You can’t,” Corisande said. “Between the rats and the lions, security here is thick. Let me do it. I’ll get Theo, and we’ll meet him down there. We can make an escape.”

“Geb wants to take care of Ordelia tonight.”

Corisande groaned. Duke and Duchess Gloucester passed her, and she had to remember to stick that unnatural smile to her face. “That stupid boy,” she said through grinning teeth. “He’s going to get killed. Can’t we just make our escape with you?”

“As long as Ordelia is alive, she’ll come after you,” Selma said. “If we get rid of her, the ensuing chaos will be enough to give us time to escape.”

Corisande sighed and nodded. “Very well. But you need to stay here. Watch out for Aegir. He’s onto us.” Anton pushed through the crowd towards them. Corisande squeezed Selma’s hands tightly. “I’ll get Geb. If you can get away from the ball, meet up in our chambers.” She quickly whispered instructions, eyes following Anton as he snuck to steal his date back.

Slipping through the dance hall, Corisande’s heart pounded. The revelers dance and lurched and laughed around her. None of them seemed to notice what was going on.

None of them would ever suspect what was coming.

Not even Cora herself. 

* * *

There was something eerie about padding a lonely trail through the catacombs while the ceiling thundered with the revelries of the ball. Leonie was too deep underground to really hear much of the celebrations, but the vibrations carried through the foundations in occasional shakes and shivers. Leonie had never feared ghosts like some of her classmates, but this tested the limits of her imagination.

Wide arcs of lantern light swung through the narrow corridors. Leonie kept twisting to stare at specters leaning in at the periphery of her vision. It was nothing. Certainly not a dead body, which was why she was down here in the first place.

 _Just hold yourself together_ , Leonie reminded herself. _This is the easiest coin you’ll ever get._

The walls buzzed again. She thought she heard a heavy thud deep in the tunnels behind her.

 _Just the party. Or the walls settling,_ Leonie told herself. The heavy thuds continued. Leonie stopped. It almost sounded like footsteps. She stretched out her arm with the lantern as far as it would go. It did nothing to alleviate the oppressive darkness.

Leonie turned back. She just had to find this corpse and take a token. All they were looking was evidence of Agarthans in the catacombs.

The sound returned. This definitely sounded like someone running through the tunnels. Leonie carefully set down her lantern. She nocked an arrow and stretched back the cord of her bow. She aimed it for that pit of darkness that yawned at the end of the hall.

Suddenly, the shadows began to disperse. Leonie squinted. Were her eyes playing tricks on her or was someone approaching her with a lantern of their own? She waited, her arm tensed and ready to loose her arrow. A human form emerged from the darkness.

“There you are!” Raphael bellowed.

It was a good thing that Leonie maintained such good trigger control, or else she might have struck Raphael in the heart. Raphael stood with his shoulders stooped and his neck turned against the ceiling of the cavern. Leonie relaxed her arm.

“You scared me!” Leonie gasped. “I’m supposed to be hunting ghosts down here.”

“I’d thought I’d help out,” Raphael said. “You were so insistent on paying that tab back, I thought I could pitch in.” He had discarded his tails and waistcoat, and his muscles strained under his shirt.

“I owe that debt to you!” Leonie said. “You can’t help me pay back a debt to yourself.”

Raphael shrugged. “Why not? Besides, the banquet is over. That was the main attraction for me anyways.”

“How’d you even find me?” Leonie asked. “I’m so lost down here.”

“I followed the sound of your boots,” Raphael said. Leonie was many things—a skilled archer, master equestrian, competitive bar brawler, and professional drinker—but stealthy she was not. “Why are you down here again?”

“We’re searching for the dead body of an Agarthan to see whether or not Ashe is a clone.”

Raphael’s face scrunched in confusion. Leonie realized how absurd the whole situation sounded. If Felix wasn’t paying her, she might have told him to stop fucking with her. “Really?”

Leonie sighed and grabbed his arm. “Let’s just get this over with. Go down that passage. I’ll search this one.”

At least with two people, the work would go faster, Leonie thought as she plunged down another branch of the extensive catacombs. Her lantern shed flickering light and shadows over cobwebs and rat holes. Leonie inhaled thick dust that settled heavy in her lungs.

A rancid odor reached her nose. Leonie paused. It was very faint here. Moving again, she found that it grew stronger down the passage. Up ahead, she could see where the passage splintered again into different veins. She skittered to a stop. There, at the intersection, a foot stuck out from the corner.

“Raphael!” she called. “Raphael, come here!” Quickly, she set down the lantern so that she could investigate the body. Blood congealed around a decapitated neck. Leonie pinched her nose, but it was not the worst she had ever witnessed. Felix had asked for evidence, and since the head was already so nicely severed, she figured that would work. She would just have to find it first.

“Raphael!” she screamed again. She wondered how he ever heard her. These twisting passageways must have cut off the sound. She had expected to hear him running. “I guess, I’ll just have to do it myself.” It took a few minutes of searching the dust, but Leonie found a head. The mouth and eyes gaped. Blood matted the pale skin. Maggots had already begun to chew at the wound. “Yep, this is a Slither all right.”

Leonie clutched it by the hair. It swung in her hand as she scooped up the lantern. Delving back down the passageway, she thought she heard movement. _Now, Raphael comes_ , she thought. She emerged in the chamber where he had found her originally. She still heard the strange sounds, but no longer did she think it was Raphael. These were multiple footsteps, thuds, and clambers.

Panic flashed over Leonie. She abandoned the lantern and the head in the dust. Rushing towards the noise, she unhooked her bow and drew an arrow. The clamor of fighting grew louder. Leonie followed her ears towards the commotion.

Argentine smoke glowed lunar-bright in the dark corridors. It snaked between Leonie’s feet, stealing the heat from her skin. A heavy crash rattled the walls, and dirt shook down from the ceiling. Leonie did not lose her composure. She held her bow, nocked and ready, as she nosed around the corner.

But what she saw nearly made her lose it.

Edelgard von Hresvelg stood over Raphael’s fallen form. He lay panting against the wall, cracks splintering from where his back had struck the wall. Edelgard lifted her lavender eyes towards Leonie. What was strange was that she appeared as perfect as a memory—unaged, as though she had stepped from her execution twenty-five years ago to this moment now. She was a ghost, Leonie thought. Or worse, like the beheaded creature, a Slither. Leonie began to realize why Felix sent her down here.

“You’re not the real Edelgard!” Leonie yelled. One arrow, that’s all it required. One in the neck or the eye or the stomach. Her arm was trembling, but her aim was true. She let loose the arrow. A veil of magic rose up around Edelgard and swallowed the projectile whole.

Edelgard grinned.

“How obnoxious,” she droned. The voice was so perfect. Leonie wanted to believe this was the real thing. “Why does no one believe me?” Petite, like Edelgard. An expression of fire, like Edelgard. Leonie backed up as she strung another arrow. “In the end, I suppose, you’re not the one I need to convince.”

Edelgard heaved in her hands a relic that Leonie had forgotten about—Aymr! There was no way that the Agarthans could have gotten their hands on that, right? Leonie was certain what to think anymore, but either way, she had a job to do.

She shot another arrow. The darkness gulped it down. Edelgard didn’t even flinch. 

Raphael groaned and stumbled to his feet. The tunnel’s tight fit made it difficult for him to maneuver his wide shoulders. He was at a disadvantage down here. Leonie meanwhile couldn’t even get her arrows to land. The magic warp gobbled up every one of them.

The magical aegis widened. A blast of cold air struck her face, and nocturnal sparks singed her bangs. She would have to run. There was no fighting this, not here, not within these cramped walls. Raphael used this moment to wrench his arms around Edelgard’s neck.

“You dastard!” Edelgard screamed, and as she did so, everything went dark.

Blind and powerless, Leonie wasn’t sure what happened next. A frigid cold sunk into her bones. Cold air blew past her, and she dimly had the sense of flying down the long dark corridor until her back struck brick, and the pain wiped her senses clean.

* * *

It started almost imperceptibly.

The dancers swirled around the ballroom. Bowls of punch emptied and filled. Fireworks exploded beyond the castle walls, followed by what were either screams or jeers. The windows frosted with unseasonable ice. Candles flickered, and the shadows crawled out of the corners. 

And then, they began to notice.

Webs of silver mist crept over the ballroom floor until a fine layer blanketed their feet. Despite the throng of dancing bodies, a chill overtook the air. Suddenly, the chandeliers and candelabra went out all at once. Darkness intruded on the party. Only the fine layer of silver mist illumined the event.

Shrieks erupted almost as soon as they were plunged into darkness, and the music screeched to a halt. Dimitri leapt to his feet. In the dim glow of the mist, he saw Felix unsheathe his sword and Sylvain reach for the Lance of Ruin.

The mist began to spin in the center of the room. Revelers scattered as glyphs of light burst on the floor. Dimitri’s head throbbed. Although the ball had gone deathly silent, voices clambered in his ear.

Light shaped the form of a human silhouette, and from it, Edelgard’s solid form manifested. 

It was like looking into a portrait. It was like being yanked backwards in time in one of Byleth’s temporal somersaults. Edelgard hadn’t aged a day. Looking at her, Dimitri could feel the age in his bones. Those lavender eyes flicked up towards him, and she passed a haughty smile.

“Dimitri,” she said. “King Dimitri, I am told.”

Sharp pains shot through Dimitri’s skull. Edelgard’s spiraling glyphs of light gleamed auras around her body. He could not focus on anything but her. He didn’t even notice Marianne’s hands on his shoulder or Felix’s threat to Edelgard. Her eyes bore a hole straight through him.

“So you finally appeared.” Dimitri’s lips parted. How dare she come again to destroy everything. Why couldn’t she ever just leave him alone? Even death could not keep her down. “What do you want?”

“To join the festivities of course,” Edelgard said. She took slow, measured steps towards Dimitri. Her red gown trailed behind her. Soldiers rushed forward, their lances jutting towards her. Edelgard ignored them as she made her approach towards Dimitri.

“Don’t take another step!” Dimitri snarled. The thud of the crest in his veins overwhelmed his senses.

Edelgard held her hands up in defense. “I have no weapon.”

“Why did you come now of all times?”

Edelgard glanced around at the watching crowds. “Let it be known that I bring no weapon to Dimitri’s doors. All I ask is for my rightful seat.” She held out a hand to Dimitri. “If you would accept me.”

Claude stood from his seat now. “Perhaps we ought to hear her out.”

“You cannot be serious,” Dimitri growled. “She brings an army to my doorstep and intrudes in my home, and you say she deserves a place?”

Claude walked over to Dimitri. He placed a hand on Areadbhar and gently eased it down. “Let us be careful of how we look, your majesty,” Claude whispered. “Perhaps we ought to invite her for a private conversation. Just the three of us. We’ll talk things out, away from prying eyes.”

“I am not going alone into a room with that woman,” Dimitri said.

“You will not be alone. I shall be there.”

Perhaps if Dimitri had not been so clouded with hatred, he would have noticed something odd about Claude’s voice or his mannerisms. But as the auras thickened around Edelgard’s body and as the pains grew more acute in his skull, Dimitri could not think about much.

Marianne’s finger worked in the muscles of his neck. “Please, Dimitri,” she whispered to him. “Put down the weapon.”

Dimitri inhaled deeply, feeling the air filled his lungs to capacity. What was it that Byleth recommended in these moments? _Ground yourself. Feel the sensations against your skin. The little noises in your ears. Count your breaths._ When Dimitri his eyes, his head still raged and his vision narrowed, but his thoughts were clear.

“We shall discuss your terms in private,” Dimitri said. “With all of my knights present. Duke Riegan, Lord Aegir, if you will.”

Ferdinand stared at Edelgard’s face. Too youthful an appearance, he thought, but also not as faithful as he expected. Her smile stretched too greedily; her hair—her pride and joy—lay too limp. He wondered if anyone else noticed it as well, or if he only recognized the faults in her appearance because Corisande had already confirmed it.

“I shall join you in a moment,” Ferdinand said. “There is one thing I must attend to first.”

Felix and Ingrid quickly called for an intercession in the ball. Knights surrounded Edelgard to lead her out of the room while soldiers pressed the crowd back against the wall.

Ferdinand, meanwhile, sought out Selma. He spotted her leaning on the balcony rail, her eyes transfixed on the apparition below. Ferdinand pushed through the crowd and skipped up the stairs to the balcony three at a time.

Anton, at least, had drawn his weapon, although it was a ceremonial sword, more decoration than bite. Ferdinand pulled him away.

“Get down to your father,” he hissed. He pushed Anton towards the stairs before swiveling back to Selma. “You!” Selma broke away from the sight of Edelgard as though waking from a trance. When she realized it was Ferdinand at her back, her eyes widened. Quickly, she tried to sidle away, but the crowd blocked her exit. Ferdinand grabbed her wrist and dragged her down the stairs and into the corridor outside of the ballroom. He could see just ahead where the party with Edelgard was turning towards the war room. Out here, in the cooler air, they could breathe for a moment and talk in peace.

“You can end this,” Ferdinand said.

“What do you mean?” Selma asked.

“I know your true identity!”

Selma’s expression morphed from innocent horror to a mask of steel. _Well-trained,_ Ferdinand thought, _like her parents._

“I do not understand,” she said coldly. “I am afraid that you will have to be clearer, Lord Aegir.”

“Enough games,” Ferdinand said. “That’s not the real Edelgard. I surmise you realize that better than perhaps anyone else at this event.”

“And why would you say that?”

“Because I knew your parents,” Ferdinand said. “They were my dearest friends, and I know that you have the evidence to show everyone down there that this is no Edelgard.”

“I have no evidence,” Selma said. “Nothing that proves anything. And you? What is your evidence?”

“Your eyes.”

Selma laughed. “Excuse me? What proof is that?”

“Why would you not wish to clear their names? If you are truly your mother’s daughter, you could end this threat once and for all.”

“That is very optimistic,” Selma said. “Edelgard is nothing more than a figurehead to these people. They care not about the truth. Expose that creature out there, and they still have a Riegan puppet to play with.” _So she had noticed as well,_ Ferdinand thought.

Selma continued: “But if you are so determined, you have all the tools to fix this at your behest. You know the truth. Go.” She gestured towards where they had walked Edelgard out of the ballroom. “Expose it. You don’t need me.”

“I am not letting you escape,” Ferdinand said. “If you will not listen to me, then perhaps your mother will.”

Selma laughed, even as she struggled against his grasp. “Have you _met_ my mother?” And if the situation weren’t so dire, perhaps Ferdinand might have chuckled along. Of course, Selma would have inherited her obstinance from her mother.

She tried to shove her way out, but Ferdinand held her fast to the wall. An elbow dug into his gut, pushing him back with a heave of strength he had not expected. Selma wriggled out of his grasp, forcibly wrenching her wrest from his. He could feel his joints pop. Normal young women did not possess that type of strength.

Ferdinand straightened to catch his breath. “You have a crest,” he said, panting.

“That’s an understatement actually.” She backed down the hall, watching to see if Ferdinand would follow. Ferdinand tore between attending the war room meeting and chasing Selma. On the one hand, he was Prime Minister of Adrestia; and they would expect him to confront Edelgard. On the other hand, it was a fake Edelgard and his key to finding the real one was about to get away.

Hands clapped onto Selma’s shoulders. She hadn’t been looking, and now as she turned, she screamed. Claude von Riegan—or at least a convincing impression of him—had her within his grasp.

“An understatement, you say?” he purred. “Now that is interesting. Unfortunately, I saw you accost Lord Aegir, and I think we may need to take you into custody.”

“Claude von Riegan,” Ferdinand hissed. “You shall not touch that—” The false Claude raised a hand, and Ferdinand felt his throat constrict. He grasped at his throat as it tightened. He could barely breathe, much less speak. With a thud, his knees buckled, and he collapsed to the ground, struggling for breath.

Selma tore away from Claude. Her crested strength flared. As easy as a shrug, she heaved him off of her. She yanked up the skirt of her gown, where strapped to her leg, she drew a dagger. The imposter merely chuckled. 

Though Claude this was not, there was still a scheme afoot.

“Guards!” Claude called with such resonance and urgency, although his face had twisted into a smirk. “Guards, there’s been an attack!”

Heavy footsteps padded the halls, and in a second’s notice, soldiers surrounded Claude. And there was Selma, just steps away from a gasping Ferdinand, with a dagger drawn.

Ferdinand writhed, desperate to expand his lungs and scream. Panic flooded his senses, not at all helped by the asphyxiation. Black dots spiraled across his vision. This was bad. They couldn’t win like this—they couldn’t! Ferdinand moaned in pain, the noise barely gasping from his constricted throat. 

Claude grabbed Selma. Selma plunged the dagger into his ribs. She twisted and tore it out. Blood streaked across the room. As if on cue, the soldiers converged on her. As they fell upon Selma, a huge black bubble formed around her body. Magical energy simmered with latent power until the bubble burst. Bodies soared. Ferdinand heard the thud of armor striking the walls.

To think that the poor orchardist’s daughter had this kind of power.

But Ferdinand was fading too quickly to register the shock. His vision eked in and out. He was close to gone now. Praying for the first time in a long time, Ferdinand hoped that Selma managed to escape.

Instead, she came to him. And that was the last thing that he understood, as she wrapped him up her magic and teleported them away. 

* * *

Edelgard sat in Dimitri’s clawed chair at the head of the table. Around her, the remnants of the Golden Deer and Blue Lions hovered around her like wolves about to pounce. Calmly, she asked for a pot of tea—Hresvelg blend—and smiled so serenely that her observers could not help but feel as though she had some trick up her sleeve.

“So tell me,” Edelgard said, “wasn’t our dear professor Byleth supposed to be here?”

The question prompted a murmur through the room. Dimitri growled.

“What do you know about that?” Dimitri hissed. “If I discover that you had something to do with her disappearance—”

“On the contrary,” Edelgard said. “That is precisely the reason I am here. I too am seeking Byleth.”

Felix slammed his fists on the table. “Enough! Dimitri, this is not the real Edelgard!” Dimitri’s head swiveled so fast, his neck cracked. “Just this morning, we received intelligence that Edelgard, as well as some members of our own cohort, have been replaced by Agarthan lookalikes.”

Dimitri began to laugh. His knuckles whitened as he clenched Areadbhar. Edelgard meanwhile sipped her tea and leaned back in her seat.

“So?” she asked. “What, you think I’m in here to convince you lot? What a credible narrative you all will have to share. Edelgard returns, but do not panic, folks, it is just a…clone? A member of a race that we claimed victory over, nearly twenty-five years ago?” She smirked. “Good luck with that one.”

“I have had enough of this.” Dimitri’s head buzzed. _How dare this creature. How dare she._ The monster did not seem to register the pain that she had caused. Dimitri hefted Areadbhar above his head. As it hurled through the air, it struck an invisible field, and Dimitri fell backwards in a burst of energy.

Edelgard frowned. She had spilled tea on her gown.

“Attack me again, and I will kill every last person in this room,” she said, dabbing at the wet spot on her skirt. “Don’t test me either. I did quite admirably against those two lunks in the cellars.”

“We outnumber you,” Felix said. “I don’t see your little cronies around anywhere.” It was true. Felix had done a quick headcount; Lysithea and Claude had disappeared. “We will find them and—”

“And what?” Edelgard said. “Call upon your army? I think you might be disappointed in that one. I believe they answer more to us than you these days. And many of your household too.”

Marianne gasped, and her hands flew to her mouth. Something suddenly occurred to her. _The stable boy._ “You’ve been killing off servants and replacing them.”

“How long,” Dimitri leaned against his spear. “How long have you been in my castle?”

“It is as my mother always said,” Edelgard said. “Complacency is truly the greatest sin, and now you all must perform your penance. I am not here to answer your babbling questions. Rather, let us discuss terms.”

“And which terms exactly are these?” Lorenz asked coolly. Without Claude there, he had slid into the position of authority with ease.

“Why, the terms of our new covenant,” Edelgard said. “You see, I am not necessarily here to destroy you—unless you force my hand, of course. I am here merely to raise my own people up—a people sorely injured by your archbishop all those years ago. Besides, you will be interested in what I have to share with you. You see, the end of the world is nigh, and we must work together to stop it.”

“The end of the world?” Felix scoffed. “You really expect us to believe that.”

“I must admit, I remain skeptical as well,” Lorenz said.

“Really? After all, it was the reason your precious little archbishop disappeared,” Edelgard said. “I believe her initial instinct was that she could not destroy Fodlan if she left Fodlan, but that didn’t quite work out for her either, so she returned with her little hellspawn to our lands.” She poured another cup of tea. “Your Church of Seiros, they say that Sothis fell from a star in the sky, do they not? You all worship her for that fact, yet did any of you ever bother to ask why she was expelled? Why the people of the Blue Sea Star cast her out?”

“We are not here to discuss theology,” Felix said.

Edelgard ignored him. “It was because she was cursed. Her blood was cursed. The Crest of Storms will destroy this land, and it does not care if you are Fodlanese or Agarthan. If you wish to stop this curse, you will join us in removing it from this land.”

“No offense,” Hilda spoke up, “but before, it seemed as though you were awful eager to take the crests for yourselves. How do we know that isn’t the case? Maybe you just want to steal this one and use it for yourself.”

“We endeavored to protect ourselves and our people against a threat that was infinitely more powerful,” Edelgard said. “We were cast underground, expelled from the light, and you think us the monsters?”

Dimitri began to laugh again, in that deep-throated, bitter sort of way. “We will never trust you.”

Edelgard shrugged. “That is your choice. You are easily replaced. Besides, we have a more powerful force on our side.”

As if on cue, a fervent pounding came at the door and one of Dimitri’s royal guards appeared. “Sir, there is an uprising at the gates! A massive riot!”

Edelgard smiled. “Your people will ultimately make the choice for you.”

“How does your plan to eliminate us help you find this world ending crest?” Lorenz asked.

“Once we are in control, we can hunt down Byleth once and for all. And with a fresh supply of crests, we can finally complete the grand apotheosis. You’ll regret your sordid fealty to that false church when Thinis is reborn.”

“Your majesty, what is your command?” the knight asked Dimitri.

Dimitri thought back to his conversations with Anton. This was a crucial moment. If he gave the wrong command, his whole kingdom could topple.

“Hold the gate,” Dimitri said. “Do not attack the crowds under any circumstances. Just make sure that they don’t break through.”

“That won’t work,” Edelgard sang. She tapped her spoon at the lip of the teacup.

“What do you want with us?” Dimitri roared.

“Send me out there,” Edelgard said. “With a word, I will calm the tempest.”

Dimitri swallowed.

“Do not permit this!” Lorenz cried. “It will only further legitimize her presence in these factions.”

“I need not your legitimacy,” Edelgard said. “I require only an alliance. Save me the trouble of having to create new likenesses of yourself.”

“Your majesty—“The knight pressed.

“I will go,” Dimitri said. Edelgard’s eyes widened, and her mouth dropped. Had he flustered her? “Their grievances are with me. They ought to settle them with me.”

Edelgard leaned over the table. Her teacup crashed to the floor as she slammed her fist on the table. “They will rent you limb from limb.”

“Did you expect me to be a coward?” Dimitri asked. “That is proof enough that you are not the real Edelgard. I doubt she would have underestimated me like this.”

“And what are you going to do about it?”

Dimitri met her gaze. Had he not been warned, he might have believed those lilac eyes and that haughty smirk.

“I suppose I shall have to locate the real one.”

Edelgard laughed. “So nothing then.” The chair squeaked as she kicked it backwards. “We are quite done here. Unless you wish to enter into our agreement.” She extended a hand towards Dimitri. The whole room held its breath waiting to see what Dimitri would do. Ferdinand and Claude were absent; it was all up to him.

“Guards, arrest her,” Dimitri said.

Edelgard disappeared in a detonation of arcane energy. The blast scattered the papers on the table; it threw chairs in the air. When the air settled, they had a few bruises but no major injuries. The old schoolmates stood transfixed in silence.

“She can’t have gone far,” Annette finally said. “The magical wards mean that you can’t use magic to traverse the gates. She’ll have to leave on foot.”

“Let us split up,” Felix said. “No one go alone though. And no one can trust Claude or Lysithea right now.”

Lorenz’s brows seemed to shoot off his forehead. “Why, perchance, may I ask—”

“Because they’ve already been replaced,” Felix said. “As with Ashe. Look we don’t have time to explain! Just trust me!”

“Um…where is Ferdinand?” Bernadetta squeaked from Felix’s shadow.

Dimitri felt fresh panic. The absence of certain members suddenly seemed significant. His brain rattled with so much information he could barely think straight. _Ground yourself. Count your breaths._ The world slowly stilled. And Dimitri realized that Anton was right. They had been purposely trying to provoke one of his episodes.

Well, that would no longer work. They would either have to kill him or die. 

* * *

Ferdinand woke in someone’s bed. His throat ached, and his head radiated with pain. But he was alive. As his vision returned, he realized Selma was there. She leaned next to the door, playing some sort of wooden puzzle she had found. 

“Your father would have abandoned me to die, you know,” Ferdinand croaked. Selma set aside the box and poured him a glass of water. Ferdinand drank it greedily. His throat was on fire, but to his dismay, swallowing only aggravated the wounds on his neck. 

“Yes, but then I would be on the hook for your death,” Selma said. “At least this way, we have a chance of clearing up this whole mess.”

“Is the Claude clone dead?”

“No,” Selma said. “But if I were you, I’d be more worried about those guards. It seems as though you may have been infiltrated deeper than you think.”

“The Agarthans were supposed to be eradicated,” Ferdinand knocked his head back against the headboard. He was getting old. Who knew when he would recover from this incident? “We were so thorough. No one ever expected them to return.”

“We did,” Selma said. “Especially after what happened to Aunt Lys.”

Ferdinand sobered. It was so easy to think of the Breslins as some strangers, he forgot that they had a mutual connection. Selma considered Lysithea her aunt. Geb was her son. Whatever grief Ferdinand had experienced in the last week was probably so much stronger—so much rawer—for them.

“If I knew sooner—”

“It’s fine,” Selma said curtly. “You wouldn’t have believed us anyways.”

“Why don’t you escape?”

“Palace is on high alert right now,” Selma said. “And the magical wards mean that I can’t pass the walls with magic. Cora told me to wait here, and so far, no one has searched this part of the castle yet.”

“Risky to hide in the Spymaster’s chambers,” Ferdinand said.

“I do not think that Ordelia understands who I am, or what my connection is to Cora and Theo.”

“Do they know about you?”

Selma bit her lip. “I understand that they may believe that one of their previous experiments produced offspring, but me specifically? No, that’s a pretty well-guarded secret. But if that rat overheard us, they may be able to piece it together.”

The door outside Cora’s bedroom opened and shut. Selma pressed a finger to her lips, and they listened. Multiple voices jostled outside, and Selma relaxed.

“This was the meeting place, right?” Ferdinand recognized it as Geb’s voice. Selma opened the bedroom door and waved them in. A whole crowd of people piled in—Corisande and Theo, Geb and someone Ferdinand had to assume was the Almyran cousin, Hassan.

“Um, Selma, what is he doing here?” Geb asked as he alighted upon Ferdinand in the bed.

“It’s a long story. Can you fix him?” Selma asked.

“There was a commotion downstairs,” Corisande said. “What happened?”

Selma quickly explained the events of the evening as Geb spun an orb of healing magic and moved it over Ferdinand’s body. The bruises in his neck began to fade, and the pain of breathing lessened.

“You all should escape immediately. Your lives are in danger.”

“No. This is a perfect opportunity to get rid of Ordelia,” Geb said.

“I found your mother’s grave,” Ferdinand said. “I understand your desire for vengeance, but you must consider your own lives. We are completely overrun.”

“Don’t worry about me Ferdie,” Geb said. Ferdinand frowned at the nickname, so innocently delivered and yet so painful a reminder of how Ferdinand had abandoned his friends. If he hadn’t defected all those years ago, would have known these children? Fretted as they ran away to Fhirdiad? “If we don’t get her now, they’ll chase back home, and then we’d really be in trouble.”

“Why can’t we just escape now?” Theo asked, voice shrill with panic.

“With all the hubbub downstairs, I doubt we’ll be able to leave the way we came in,” Hassan said.

“Ooh!” Theo’s hand shot straight up. “There’s a way to get out of the palace by the chapel.” They all looked towards him, surprised. “Or so Emma tells me. There’s a tree that grows close to wall. You can get there through the chapel windows or there’s a balcony nearby.”

“How do we get there without being seen?” Selma asked.

“The walls,” Theo said, as though it were obvious. “There’s all sorts of passageways around.”

“You take them Theo,” Geb said. “Cora and I will settle things with mother dearest.”

“You cannot do this without me,” Selma said.

“Sellie, you need to get out of here.”

“No, Selma, you will remain here,” Ferdinand said. “It is too risky for you to try to leave, and besides, I still have unfinished business with all of you. I will assist with the Hevring siblings in locating Lysithea, but the rest of you must remain here.”

“Ugh, don’t call us that,” Geb said. “Look, no offense. But I can’t trust you.”

“No offense, but if you wish to survive this evening, you must at least attempt to cooperate,” Ferdinand said, standing from the bed. “You have been revealed. I cannot just permit you to escape.”

“Very well,” Geb said with a dramatic sigh. “Stay hidden, Sellie. We’ll just have to ‘trust’ Aegir here.” Geb opened the door. “Let’s hurry though? I don’t want more rats infesting than this place.” As Ferdinand shuffled out of the bedroom, Geb pulled Selma into an unexpected hug.

In her ear, he whispered: “Get the fuck out of here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I promised an apocalypse this chapter, but this chapter was originally 10K, and I had to split it up. Which means! Next chapter, the apocalypse begins.


	13. The Deluge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It begins to rain.

“Lady Amanda, I regret to inform you that your father has been wounded.”

Amina was barred into the ballroom with the rest of the revelers. The air stunk of sweat and despair. No one was dancing, but no one could leave either. Guards barricaded every door. When one came through the crowd for her, she had hoped he would relieve her captivity, but instead, he brought only ill tidings. 

“Where is he?”

The guard shook his head. “I am afraid that you must remain here for the time being. He is receiving the best care, and you should be able to see him soon.

 _Yeah, right,_ Amina thought. They were stuck in here for several more hours at least. Who knew what was going on in King Dimitri’s council?

Almost an hour locked in the ball room had already told Amina that there would be no easy escape. She had learned that pleading with the guards would get her nowhere. This called for something special.

So she swooned.

The guards caught her before she struck the ground. Amina kept her eyes closed as they carried her out of the ballroom. As soon as they were out, Amina pushed herself out of the arms of the guard and took off running. The guards called after her, but they didn’t give chase.

Perks of being a future duchess.

If Amina had to guess, they likely took her father back to his chambers for treatment. She zipped through the halls, tripping over her skirt as she did so. She was fairly sure she could hear the sleeves of her outfit rip. Not that she cared. Her mind fixated on finding her father, that she didn’t bother to look around the corner as she ran.

And that was how she collided with Anton.

“Ow!” Amina’s face had planted right into his shoulder. She rolled her jaw. Anton, standing at least two heads above her, absorbed the impact unflinchingly.

“What’s wrong?”

“My dad was injured!” Amina said.

“Is that why the guards are so panicked?” Anton said. “Look, you remember my date, Selma, right? Have you seen her anywhere?”

Amina shook her head. “I don’t have time for this. I need to find my father.”

“Well, he’s not upstairs,” Anton said. “I could have sworn I saw him and Lysithea a second ago heading in the direction of the Great Hall. Let's go look together.”

The Great Hall where they had enjoyed apertifs just hours before now looked like a fort under siege. A column of soldiers guarded the colossal doors of the castle, their pikes lowered in anticipation. Outside, they heard muffled sounds of rioters beyond the castle walls. But no Claude and no Lysithea.

“Excuse me, sir,” Amina said to one of the guards. “I am searching for my father, Duke Claude von Riegan.”

“I apologize, my lady. He was here a few moments ago, but I do not know where precisely he went.”

“What about a woman? Tall, green eyes, dark hair.” Anton said.

“Do you mean the young woman who stabbed Duke Riegan?”

Amina’s eyes went wide. “The what?”

“That can’t be it,” Anton said.

“Who is this woman?” Amina asked.

“I believe she was identified as someone named Selma Breslin,” said the man.

“No…no, no.” Anton laughed nervously. “There’s a mistake. She would never. She can barely handle a dagger.”

“Sir, she was witnessed by several guardsman,” the soldier said. “She attacked Lord Aegir with magic and then when Duke Riegan tried to intervene, she stabbed him. She then apparently used dark magic to escape the guards and disappeared with Lord Aegir. No one knows where they went.”

“I am positive you have the wrong person,” Anton said, but his mind kept travelling back to that day with Raul in the alley. Raul had taunted “ _You’re damn lucky that Selma saved you back there_.” A sensate memory of cold smoke and darkness chilled his blood. Selma always warned him that she could protect herself. Anton started to wonder, with a knot in his throat, if it was true.

“Your date did this?” Amina seethed. “You brought my father’s assassin into these walls?”

“Amina, trust me…that can’t be what happened.”

“If I may, Lady Amina, your father was quite well when I saw him,” the guard said. “You need not worry. Lady Ordelia patched him up. I believe they are trying to find Lord Aegir now.”

Anton took off down the hallway. He fumbled with his ceremonial sword, casting the scabbard aside with a loud clang. “Someone give me a real weapon!” he barked. 

“Where are you going?” Amina called.

“I am going to find Selma and settle the truth,” Anton said. One of the guards provided a sword, and he swung it a few times to test its weight.

“I’m coming with you,” Amina said. She too took a sword. Although it was not her preferred weapon, she could handle herself in a fight.

“Whatever,” Anton said. “But don’t slow me down.”

Amina could barely compare to Anton’s height, and his long legs took him much faster down the hall. Amina had to run to stay by his side as they took flight down the corridors.

The chapel, so close to the great hall, was their first point of investigation. Candelabra cast wraithlike shadows on the aisle. Anton and Amina’s footsteps echoed as they passed through the pews.

Amina sighed. “I don’t think they’re here—”

“Sh!” Anton pressed a finger to his lips. He pointed to the wood-paneled walls of the nave. One of the panels was missing. Anton removed a candle from the candelabra and held it inside the dark passageway. “Someone is moving through the walls.”

“Is that a thing?”

“Yeah, there’s all sorts of dusty old places in this castle.” Anton made another sweep of the room with his eyes. “But were they coming or going…”

Amina watched as he crossed the chapel towards one of the towering stained-glass windows. Amina shivered as cold breeze blew over her. Anton ran a hand along the edge of the window. Amina suddenly realized that it hung slightly ajar, like a door. It was a maintenance entrance, Amina realized, in case someone needed to slip onto the parapets to repair a broken gutter or reattach a gargoyle.

“Seems like we ought to check this out,” Anton said as he stepped outside onto the narrow passage. Amina followed curiously. A balcony extended along the chapel between the parapet and the building.

Amina caught sight of figures down the wall. “What are they doing?” 

“Shit. They’re trying to climb down the tree and escape.” Anton raced down the balcony. “Hey, you there, halt—”

It was Anton who came to a halt. Amina chased after him, wondering what it was that he saw that made him so alarmed.

“Selma?” he stuttered.

Amina frowned. Because it wasn’t just Selma standing there looking guilty. For one Theo von Ordelia was there, straddling the parapet, his white hair stark in the night. And a third person, one who’s presence made Amina’s toes curl.

“Hassan, what are you doing here?”

“Do you know her, Hassan?” Selma asked the man beside her.

Hassan laughed nervously. “Long story, Sellie.”

Amina crossed her arms. “Sure seems like we were importing some assassins into our own celebration.” She tugged Anton’s sleeve and pointed to Hassan. “This was the man Raphael and I were traveling with.”

“Selma, they’re saying that you attacked Ferdinand von Aegir and Claude von Riegan!”

“No, no, Anton, please you have to understand,” Selma said. “That man is not Claude. He’s an imposter. And he was the one who attacked Ferdinand—”

“We were just with Ferdinand!” Theo said. “He’s with Geb. He can clear this up.”

“With Geb? I’ m sorry, Theo, what are you doing here with them?” Anton snapped. “What is it with you Ordelias and the fucking Breslins!”

“Theo, run ahead,” Selma said. “We’ll follow shortly.”

“But—”

“Go!” Theo scrambled over the parapet and to the tree. Anton rushed forward to try to grab him, but Selma blocked him. She grabbed the front of his shoulders.

“Danny—Anton, please just hear me out—” Anton stared at her in disbelief. “You are all in danger right now. There are imposters in the palace and—”

“Do you really believe this, Anton?” Amina accused. “That my father has been replaced by an exact lookalike? Or perhaps the more believable story is that these Adrestian assassins used you to get into the palace and sew discord.”

“Selma, I don’t understand,” Anton said. “What is he—” he pointed to Hassan, “—doing here? What are you doing trying to escape like this? You were seen by the guards.”

“The Agarthans,” Selma said. “Those Who Slither in the Dark. Call them what you will—”

“Selma, I cannot let you leave.”

“Anton, I cannot stay here—”

“If you are innocent, we can—”

Hassan stepped between them. He crossed his arms. “We’re leaving,” he said. “And if you’re going to try to stop us, we’re not afraid to fight.”

Anton laughed bitterly. “Really?” He looked at Selma. Suddenly, he grabbed her hands and pried them off his shirt. Stepping back, he drew his sword. “I really don’t want to do this.”

Selma had a dagger. Anton’s gut twisted when he recognized what it was. The little dull knife she had brought from Adrestia now gleamed sharp and ready.

“You’re really going to fight me with that?”

Selma responded with a blast of miasma that tangled in Anton’s hair. A curl of smoke wrapped around his hand, squeezing his wrist until he dropped his blade. The magic stung him with its preternatural chill. Just like the fight with Raul. This whole time, she had been able to wield magic.

Selma used the moment of distraction to sidle close to him and press the blade to his throat.

“Are you going to underestimate me now?”

Amina tried to rush forward and help, but Hassan intercepted her with his sword.

“Please don’t make me do this again, Amina.”

“Do what again?”

Hassan squared his stance. As Amina swung her sword, he met it with his own blade. He was stronger than her and easily forced her backwards.

“Who are you?” she snapped at him.

“You have to get away,” Hassan said. “Your father has been replaced.” Hassan was sweating heavily. Droplets rolled down his face and chin, as thick and heavy as rain.

“Hold it in, Hassan,” Selma warned.

“I’m trying,” Hassan said through gritted teeth.

But it was too late. The skies rumbled, and a clap of thunder exploded, drowning out the sounds of chaos from beyond the walls, if only briefly.

Rain gushed down onto the balcony. Amina froze in shock. Even Anton was startled by it. Hassan stood there, water running down his hair, holding his hands out to Amina. He threw his head back to stare up into the maelstrom.

“I can fix this,” he said. “Don’t worry. I can fix this.”

“It is too late,” said a new voice. The doubles of Lysithea von Ordelia and Claude von Riegan stepped out onto the balcony. Claude’s doppelganger wielded a crooked blade of black Agarthan steel. Lysithea merely rolled a ball of energy between her palms.

“Dad!” Amina raced towards Claude.

“Amina, don’t!” Hassan screamed. “He’s not your father!”

Amina ignored him. Claude’s double grabbed Amina stiffly by the collar of her shirt, but instead of the hug that she expected, he made a formal appraisal of her body. Lysithea looked between Amina and Hassan.

“You know, I’ve always wondered if the rumors were true about you,” Lysithea purred. “About your mother, I mean.”

“She may also have the bloodline of Sothis then?” Claude asked.

Amina frowned. This was the first proper look she had on her father in days, and now he eyed her like some prized bauble. There was no mirth in those eyes, only a gluttony. The faintest of differences in his jawline and the shape of his brow signaled something very wrong to her.

And then it changed—a ripple through the skin that revealed something else entirely. Amina screamed.

Claude shoved her aside. She slid on the flagstones and tumbled down in the water pooling between the stones. Hassan tried to go to her, but Lysithea blocked him with a wall of magic. He fumbled to a stop, just before reaching her panel of oblivion.

“What in the abyss is going on?” Anton had to yell above the pounding rain.

“Be good, Prince, and stand aside,” Lysithea said.

“That girl has two crests,” Claude said, staring straight at Selma. “I’m sure of it.”

Anton looked at Selma. “Who are you?”

“Not the time,” she hissed. Matching swarms of black energy sprouted from her hands. 

A well of dark magic split beneath Hassan’s feet. He stumbled backwards as shadowed vines tangled around his legs. Selma lashed out with her spheres of arcane darkness. They fizzled into empty air as they struck Lysithea’s magic shield.

Claude’s sword crackled with electricity as he dashed forward. Hassan met him with his own blade. Sparks flew out as sword collided with sword.

Anton watched, uncertain of which side he was supposed take. After gaping in horror for a minute, he regained his senses. The chaos between the Agarthans and the Breslins gave him enough cover to reach Amina.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“That’s not my father,” Amina said first as a whisper, then louder. “That’s not my father. Who is that!”

Anton helped her to her feet. The rain soaked their clothing and slowed their movements. They could barely see through the deluge and the darkness. Anton steadied himself.

“Are you positive that that is not your father,” he asked Amina one more time.

“Yes.”

Anton charged. He wrapped his arms around Claude’s back and wrangled him to the ground. The magical vines around Hassan’s feet dissipated. He staggered backwards in surprise as Anton rolled to the ground with Claude locked in his arms. He tried to keep his sword at the imposter’s throat, but with Claude’s wriggling, it was difficult.

All heat evaporated from the air. Icicle-sharp raindrops pelted on Anton, and every droplet on his body turned to a sheet of ice. The cold enshrouded him—a cold so deep it bit into his bones. Claude broke away, ducking as Hassan tried to tackle him. Anton’s sword clattered to the ground.

Lysithea hovered over Anton. Frozen air curled off her shoulders like smoke. Eyes backlit with malice, Lysithea smirked over Anton’s frozen body. Anton struggled to his feet. She grabbed Anton by the hair; the strands turned to ice and broke off in her grasp.

Selma lobbed whorl after whorl of magic at Lysithea, but the shield was simply too strong. So she took out her dagger and raced forward. Anton saw a flash, and he felt a burr of energy. Selma’s crest, he guessed—her crests, actually, would be more accurate. The dagger flashed in the air, cutting through the veil of magic, and striking Lysithea on the shoulder.

It was enough to break Anton’s spell. Shards of ice cracked and splintered off his skin. Lysithea pressed her hands against Selma’s throat. Selma screamed as the magic seared her skin.

“I am no longer playing, children,” she hissed.

“Good. Because I’m no longer fucking playing either!”

Anton almost froze in shock. He turned towards the voice.

“Geb, what are you doing here?”

Geb juggled a luminous corona in his hands. Corisande was at his heels with black flames igniting from her palms. Geb looked past Anton and grinned. “Why, hello there mumma dearest.”

Lysithea appraised him coldly. “Do I know you?”

“Well, the real Lysithea von Ordelia would,” Geb taunted, taking another step towards her. “You are, the real thing, right?” He smirked. “Come now, don’t tell me Cora was always your favorite. Or little baby Theo, hm?”

Lysithea’s eyes widened in realization. “You’re the eldest one. The one born in his father’s captivity.”

“And you are the bitch who murdered my mother.”

Geb released his pent-up magic. A cannon of light shot through his hands towards Lysithea, scattering the shadows in a flash. Anton squeezed his eyes shut, but the ray burned through his eyelids. When the light faded, the darkness returned so swiftly that for a minute, he saw nothing. The rain rolled off his skin and echoed as it struck the flagstones.

Lysithea dropped to her knees. The attack did not incapacitate her. Instead, she whirled a fresh web of magic. Geb did not wait. He lashed out again, cutting through the darkness with an attack of fire. Anton felt hands at his arms, pulling him away. It took him a second to realize it was Selma. She rested him against the wall; he still felt too cold to move.

Amina, meanwhile, watched the fight unfold in horror. Her knee and elbows bled where she had scraped along the flagstones. The darkness made it difficult to discern who was where. The effulgence of Geb’s spell illuminated Claude and Hassan locked in combat.

Claude had knocked Hassan over. His boot rammed into his ribs. He held his sword pointed down, ready for the killing strike.

Hassan’s eyes glowed green. The puddles pooling in the uneven flagstones suddenly frothed and bubbled. Streams of water coalesced into a small flood that trapped the imposter's feet. The geyser surged higher and higher, forming an aqueous pedestal. As the water rose above his shoulders, Claude dropped his sword, and it floated idly in the watery pillar.

The sight of it was miraculous, but Amina was frozen in place, staring at Hassan’s eyes. The green light refracted off every raindrop; it pooled, glistening, in the puddles.

_A toy. They had been arguing over a toy, and it made him so mad._

As the tower of water overwhelmed the imposter, Amina felt her throat tighten. Blood pounded in her ears like the resonant burble of water.

Claude began to change form. Skin stretched and shifted. His tan complexion leeched away into alabaster pallor. Color bleached from his hair. The water grew wider now, even as it still climbed higher and higher. Hassan appeared lost in his daze; the green fluorescence washed out his complexion. The wall continued to rise. Amina gasped. He wasn’t just swallowing up the Agarthan. No, it would drown all of them.

Fear stuck in her gullet. Amina dropped to her knees and tried to shake Hassan from his trance. His whole body felt rigid. It was like shaking a statue. So close to his face, the glow of his eyes was even eerier.

Geb had knocked Lysithea on her back. Her white eyes appeared bereft of any color or iris. Shadows flickered, like purple fire, around her. Her leg had snapped to an unusual angle, but she still had her magic. Geb needed to proceed carefully.

“Halt!” screamed a voice. Ferdinand limped onto the balcony. He froze when he saw the building aegis of water around Hassan and the floating body of a white-haired Agarthan in Leicester clothes within. Lysithea was still in her stolen form, but she sprawled with a broken leg on the ground.

Lysithea’s eyes went feral. “Ferdinand, help me,” she called. “These children—”

“Oh, fuck you.” Geb spoke the arcane words, and Lysithea flew backwards and slammed against a wall. Almost immediately, the transformation began. Her cheeks grew new shapes. Her jaw refitted and resized.

“Shit, shit,” he limped over to Hassan. “Stay back!” he screamed towards the soldiers. Selma had already fallen next to Hassan. She peeled a screaming Amina away from him. The great wall of water fed from the rain and loomed ever higher. It was the only thing between Ferdinand and them.

Geb summoned a spell they hadn’t seen before. Carefully, he scribed a sigil of light around Hassan’s body. Hassan’s muscles began to loosen. All at once, the glow zipped from his eyes. The water crashed. A huge splash rebounded and inundated the soldiers.

Ferdinand rubbed the water away from his eyes. By the time, he regained his senses, he found that Geb had replaced it with a buffer of gossamer light that blocked the soldier’s lances.

They were escaping. Once they got over the tree and past the magical wards on the castle walls, they would be able to use magic to escape. Corisande had already mounted the wall.

Ferdinand remembered Amina and Anton. He found Amina kneeled on the wet flagstones behind Geb’s curtain of light. Her lips moved as if shouting, but Geb’s shield muffled her cries. Anton still collapsed near the wall, trying to rub his hands together for warmth.

“Geb, this is a bad idea,” Ferdinand said. “Stay with us. We can help you.”

“We appreciate the assistance,” Geb said, his voice only barely coming through. He made the magical shield flare brightly for a second as if to warn Ferdinand. “But we were taught to only trust the family.”

Hassan had made it to the tree. Selma was now in the process of climbing over herself. Amina leaned against the wall, staring down at them. She turned towards Ferdinand. He wondered what she would do. Could she dispel the wall? Attack Geb and force him to his senses?

To his horror, Amina straddled the wall and disappeared into the tree after them.

Geb grinned. “Really though, appreciate the help. I’ll put in a good word with the old folks.” Backing towards the wall, he maintained the shield. Ferdinand wondered how long it would last after he disappeared. Once they were past the wards in the walls, they could teleport to anywhere. They would be gone.

His legs swung over the wall. Geb locked eyes with Ferdinand, and in a deep bellow said, “Don’t. Follow. Us.”

By the time the light broke, he was down the tree and gone. All that remained were the soldiers, a dazed prince, the two alabastrine corpses.

* * *

Rain came down in sheets over Derdriu. Ignatz looked out the window. How odd. They hadn’t been expecting a storm this evening. Seteth and Flayn were reading companionably by the fire—Seteth a book of homilies and Flayn, one of those trashy Fraldarius novels. They had survived the evening without any squabbles, and Ignatz finally felt as though a sense of routine had returned to his life. He could just enjoy watching the rain from the window, a stolen moment of domestic bliss.

Flayn suddenly sat upright. Her hand clutched her rounded stomach. Both Seteth and Ignatz turned their heads expectantly.

“I believe I am quite fine,” Flayn said after a moment. She smiled hesitantly. Seteth resumed reading, but Ignatz moved from the window to her side. “Really, Ignatz, you must not worry—” She sucked in a sharp breath as the next pain came.

Seteth put down his book. “Shall I fetch the midwife?” he asked.

“That may be premature,” Flayn said.

Seteth stood. “Better safe than sorry.”

“I should go,” Ignatz said.

“No, your place is here with Flayn.” Seteth reached for his cloak. “What bizarre weather.” When he opened the door, the water sloshed down so thick, it formed a solid screen. Seteth pulled up the hood. As the door shut, Flayn grimaced with another contraction.

“Is this it?” Ignatz asked. He could not help but smile. Flayn took his hand and squeezed it. “Let us move you upstairs.” He eased Flayn to her feet and together, they ambled towards the stairs. Flayn waited, huffing deep breaths by the window while Ignatz changed the sheets on the bed. They had prepared for this. Everything would go fine.

“The midwife says that labor can last anywhere from an hour to half a day,” Flayn said. “I am not excited for that part.”

“It will be fine,” Ignatz said. He tried to coax her to lie down, but Flayn shook her head. Instead, she paced along the edge of the room.

“It is not quite so severe yet,” she said.

Ignatz ran a hand through her hair. “Are you excited?”

“Of course I am excited! Do you think it shall be a boy or a girl?”

“Ah…I’m not so good at guessing these things.”

“What if it is twins! Or triplets”

Ignatz blanched. “Oh boy, you would have hoped the midwife might have warned us.”

Flayn giggled. “It shall be fine. I shall be fine. In just a few hours, we’ll have a little baby son or daughter.”

A knock at the door interrupted their excitement. It was a bit soon for Seteth to be returning, and he wouldn’t have knocked anyways. Ignatz left Flayn to answer it. The knocking became more insistent. Perhaps it was a traveler caught in this strange weather. Ignatz was not certain that this was the best time to offer hospitality.

It wasn’t a stranger. It was a familiar face of one of the midwives that Ignatz and Flayn had interviewed. Light from the house spilled over her features. Her plasticine cheeks gleamed just a little too brightly. Her hair was damp but not as much as they might have expected for someone who had walked all the way from Derdriu.

“Hello there,” she chirped. “I hear that the missus has gone into labor.” Ignatz frowned.

This was not the midwife that Ignatz and Flayn had contracted. It was the woman from Covington. The one they had decided not to hire. The one he had told that strange patron about.

A tooth smile fixed on her face. "Now, shall you take me to the missus?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I went back to edit this chapter, I was in a bit of disbelief that one scene was so long. All in all, this chapter was a good exercise in writing chaos.
> 
> Next chapter: the rains continue. Dimitri and Ferdinand resolve to find Edelgard once and for all.


End file.
